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

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

The Strength of the Lonely

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Crickets on a Strike

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Aladdin and the Jinn

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Foreign Missions in Battle Array

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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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

The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning

[A Poem for Aviators]


            How the Wings Were Made

    From many morning-glories
    That in an hour will fade,
    From many pansy buds
    Gathered in the shade,
    From lily of the valley
    And dandelion buds,
    From fiery poppy-buds
    Are the Wings of the Morning made.

Vachel Lindsay

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

Vachel Lindsay

An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie

            (In the Beginning)

    The sun is a huntress young,
    The sun is a red, red joy,
    The sun is an Indian girl,
    Of the tribe of the Illinois.


            (Mid-morning)

    The sun is a smouldering fire,
    That creeps through the high gray plain,
    And leaves not a bush of cloud
    To blossom with flowers of rain.


            (Noon)

    The sun is a wounded deer,
    That treads pale grass in the skies,
    Shaking his golden horns,
    Flashing his baleful eyes.


            (Sunset)

    The sun is an eagle old,
    There in the windless west.
    Atop of the spirit-cliffs
    He builds him a crimson nest.

Vachel Lindsay

The Indian Girl's Lament.

An Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept;
And wildly, in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung:

"I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,
And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,
That, shining from the sweet south-west,
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.

"It was a weary, weary road
That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost:
Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.

"Twas I the broidered mocsen made,
That shod thee for that distant land;
'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid
Beside ...

William Cullen Bryant

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