The Angel and the Clown

    I saw wild domes and bowers
    And smoking incense towers
    And mad exotic flowers
    In Illinois.
    Where ragged ditches ran
    Now springs of Heaven began
    Celestial drink for man
    In Illinois.

    There stood beside the town
    Beneath its incense-crown
    An angel and a clown
    In Illinois.
    He was as Clowns are:
    She was snow and star
    With eyes that looked afar
    In Illinois.

    I asked, "How came this place
    Of antique Asian grace
    Amid our callow race
    In Illinois?"
    Said Clown and Angel fair:
    "By laughter and by prayer,
    By casting off all care
    In Illinois."

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

Our Mother Pocahontas

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Michelangelo

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Buddha

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Proud Farmer

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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The Illinois Village

    O you who lose the art of hope,
    Whose temples seem to shrine a lie,
    Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear,
    Who weep that Liberty must die,
    Turn to the little prairie towns,
    Your higher hope shall yet begin.
    On every side awaits you there
    Some gate where glory enters in.

    Yet when I see the flocks of girls,
    Watching the Sunday train go thro'
    (As tho' the whole wide world went by)
    With eyes that long to travel too,
    I sigh, despite my soul made glad
    By cloudy dresses and brown hair,
    Sigh for the sweet life wrenched and torn
    By thundering commerce, fierce and bare.
    Nymphs of the wheat these girls should be:
    Kings of the grove, their lovers strong.
    Why are they not inspired,...

Vachel Lindsay

Springfield Magical

    In this, the City of my Discontent,
    Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass,
    "Romance, Romance - is here.    No Hindu town
    Is quite so strange.    No Citadel of Brass
    By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate;
    No picture-palace in a picture-book
    Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!"

    In this, the City of my Discontent,
    Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep
    Wild legends new and old burn round my bed
    While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep.
    Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts,
    Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent;
    And, for a day, fair Peace have given me
    In this, the City of my Discontent!

Vachel Lindsay

He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows

    On -
    Thro' the gleaming gray
    I ran to the storm and clang -
    To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed -
    And scattered bells like autumn leaves.
    How the red bells rang!
    My breath within my breast
    Was held like a diver's breath -
    The leaves were tangled locks of gray -
    The boughs of the tree were white and gray,
    Shaped like scythes of Death.
    The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway -
    Sway like scythes of Death.
    But it was beautiful!
    I knew that all was well.
    A thousand bells from a thousand boughs
    Each moment bloomed and fell.
    On the hill of the wind-swept tree
    There were no bells asleep;
    They sang beneath my trailing wings
    Like rivers sweet and stee...

Vachel Lindsay

The Amaranth

    Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here....
    Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns
    And the tremendous Amaranth descends
    Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns?

    Does it not mean my God would have me say: -
    "Whether you will or no, O city young,
    Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you,
    Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?"

    Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep.
    Such things I see, and some of them shall come
    Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray,
    Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb.
    Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise.
    Naught can delay it.    Though it may not be
    Just as I dream, it comes at last I know
    With s...

Vachel Lindsay

How I Walked Alone in the Jungles of Heaven

Oh, once I walked in Heaven, all alone
Upon the sacred cliffs above the sky.
God and the angels, and the gleaming saints
Had journeyed out into the stars to die.

They had gone forth to win far citizens,
Bought at great price, bring happiness for all:
By such a harvest make a holier town
And put new life within old Zion's wall.

Each chose a far-off planet for his home,
Speaking of love and mercy, truth and right,
Envied and cursed, thorn-crowned and scourged in time,
Each tasted death on his appointed night.

Then resurrection day from sphere to sphere
Sped on, with all the POWERS arisen again,
While with them came in clouds recruited hosts
Of sun-born strangers and of earth-born men.

And on that day gray prophet saints went down
And...

Vachel Lindsay

The Ghosts of the Buffaloes

Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry,
The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high,
The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar,
White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar.
I rushed to the door yard. The city was gone.
My home was a hut without orchard or lawn.
It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream,
Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream ...
Then ...
Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row,
Gods of the Indians, torches aglow.

They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer,
And eagles gigantic, aged and sere,
They rode long-horn cattle, they cried "A-la-la."
They lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear,
They lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below,
The midnight made grand with the cry "A-la-la."
The midni...

Vachel Lindsay