The Indian Girl Tells the Hero Where to Go to Get the Laughing Bell

    "To the farthest star of all,
    Go, make a moment's raid.
    To the west - escape the earth
    Before your pennons fade!
    West! west! o'ertake the night
    That flees the morning sun.
    There's a path between the stars -
    A black and silent one.
    O tremble when you near
    The smallest star that sings:
    Only the farthest star
    Is cool for willow wings.

    "There's a sky within the west -
    There's a sky beyond the skies
    Where only one star shines -
    The Star of Laughing Bells -
    In Chaos-land it lies;
    Cold as morning-dew,
    A gray and tiny boat
    Moored on Chaos-shore,
    Where nothing else can float
    But the Wings of the Morning strong
    And the lilt of laughing song
    From many a ruddy throat:

    "For the Tree of Laughing Bells
    Grew from a bleeding seed
    Planted mid enchantment
    Played on a harp and reed:
    Darkness was the harp -
    Chaos-wind the reed;
    The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red -
    The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead.
    Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree
    Fell to-day at a blast from the reed.
    Bring a fallen bell to me.
    Go!" the maiden said.
    "For the bell will quench our memory,
    Our hope,
    Our borrowed sorrow;
    We will have no thirst for yesterday,
    No thought for to-morrow."

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

A Dirge for a Righteous Kitten

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

When Bryan Speaks

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

What the Hyena Said

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Scissors-grinder

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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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

He Nears the Goal

    How the red bells rang
    As I neared the Chaos-shore!
    As I flew across to the end of the West
    The young bells rang and rang
    Above the Chaos roar,
    And the Wings of the Morning
    Beat in tune
    And bore me like a bird along -
    And the nearing star turned to a moon -
    Gray moon, with a brow of red -
    Gray moon with a golden song.
    Like a diver after pearls
    I plunged to that stifling floor.
    It was wide as a giant's wheat-field
    An icy, wind-washed shore.
    O laughing, proud, but trembling star!
    O wind that wounded sore!

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

The Indian Girl Who Made Them (Comes after: The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning)

    These, the Wings of the Morning,
    An Indian Maiden wove,
    Intertwining subtilely
    Wands from a willow grove
    Beside the Sangamon -
    Rude stream of Dreamland Town.
    She bound them to my shoulders
    With fingers golden-brown.
    The wings were part of me;
    The willow-wands were hot.
    Pulses from my heart
    Healed each bruise and spot
    Of the morning-glory buds,
    Beginning to unfold
    Beneath her burning song of suns untold.

Vachel Lindsay

The Santa Fe Trail (A Humoresque)

I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He answered:    "That is the Rachel-Jane."    "Hasn't it another name, lark, or thrush, or the like?"    "No.    Jus' Rachel-Jane."


            I.    In which a Racing Auto comes from the East

                    # To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune. #
    This is the order of the music of the morning: -
    First, from the far East comes but a crooning.
    The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.
    Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.
    Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn....

                    # To be sung or read with great speed. #
    Hark to the pace-horn, chase-horn, race-horn.
    And the holy veil...

Vachel Lindsay

The Blue-Bells On The Lea.

FAIRY KING.


"The breeze is on the Blue-bells,
The wind is on the lea;
Stay out! stay out! my little lad,
And chase the wind with me.
If you will give yourself to me,
Within the fairy ring,
At deep midnight,
When stars are bright,
You'll hear the Blue-bells ring--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
On slender stems they swing.

"The rustling wind, the whistling wind,
We'll chase him to and fro,
We'll chase him up, we'll chase him down
To where the King-cups grow;
And where old Jack-o'-Lantern waits
To light us on our way,
And far behind,
Upon the wind,
The Blue-bells seem to play--
D!
DI! DIN!
DING!
Lest we should go astray.

"So gay that fairy music,
So jubilant those bells,
How days and wee...

Juliana Horatia Ewing