The Cornfields

    The cornfields rise above mankind,
    Lifting white torches to the blue,
    Each season not ashamed to be
    Magnificently decked for you.

    What right have you to call them yours,
    And in brute lust of riches burn
    Without some radiant penance wrought,
    Some beautiful, devout return?

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

An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Leaden-eyed

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Popcorn, Glass Balls, and Cranberries (As it were)

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

In Praise of Songs that Die

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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The Old Horse in the City

    The moon's a peck of corn.    It lies
    Heaped up for me to eat.
    I wish that I might climb the path
    And taste that supper sweet.

    Men feed me straw and scanty grain
    And beat me till I'm sore.
    Some day I'll break the halter-rope
    And smash the stable-door,

    Run down the street and mount the hill
    Just as the corn appears.
    I've seen it rise at certain times
    For years and years and years.

Vachel Lindsay

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

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

The Master of the Dance

A chant to which it is intended a group of children shall dance and improvise pantomime led by their dancing-teacher.


            I

    A master deep-eyed
    Ere his manhood was ripe,
    He sang like a thrush,
    He could play any pipe.
    So dull in the school
    That he scarcely could spell,
    He read but a bit,
    And he figured not well.
    A bare-footed fool,
    Shod only with grace;
    Long hair streaming down
    Round a wind-hardened face;
    He smiled like a girl,
    Or like clear winter skies,
    A virginal light
    Making stars of his eyes.
    In swiftness and poise,
    A proud child of the deer,
    A white fawn he was,
    Yet a fawn without fear.
    No youth thought him vain,
...

Vachel Lindsay

An Argument

            I.    The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias

    We find your soft Utopias as white
    As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells,
    O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are
    How human breasts adore alarum bells.
    You house us in a hive of prigs and saints
    Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law.
    I'd rather brood in bloody Elsinore
    Or be Lear's fool, straw-crowned amid the straw.
    Promise us all our share in Agincourt
    Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death,
    That future ant-hills will not be too good
    For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth.
    Promise that through to-morrow's spirit-war
    Man's deathless soul will hack and hew its way,
    Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his...

Vachel Lindsay

The Dandelion

    O dandelion, rich and haughty,
    King of village flowers!
    Each day is coronation time,
    You have no humble hours.
    I like to see you bring a troop
    To beat the blue-grass spears,
    To scorn the lawn-mower that would be
    Like fate's triumphant shears.
    Your yellow heads are cut away,
    It seems your reign is o'er.
    By noon you raise a sea of stars
    More golden than before.

Vachel Lindsay