The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
        (What the Little Girl Said)


    The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
    He bites it, day by day,
    Until there's but a rim of scraps
    That crumble all away.

    The South Wind is a baker.
    He kneads clouds in his den,
    And bakes a crisp new moon that... greedy
    North... Wind... eats... again!

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 Queen of Bubbles

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

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

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

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

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Here's to the Mice!

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Moon is a Painter

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)

    He coveted her portrait.
    He toiled as she grew gay.
    She loved to see him labor
    In that devoted way.

    And in the end it pleased her,
    But bowed him more with care.
    Her rose-smile showed so plainly,
    Her soul-smile was not there.

    That night he groped without a lamp
    To find a cloak, a book,
    And on the vexing portrait
    By moonrise chanced to look.

    The color-scheme was out of key,
    The maiden rose-smile faint,
    But through the blessed darkness
    She gleamed, his friendly saint.

    The comrade, white, immortal,
    His bride, and more than bride -
    The citizen, the sage of mind,
    For whom he lived...

Vachel Lindsay

Drying their Wings

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)
        (What the Carpenter Said)


    The moon's a cottage with a door.
    Some folks can see it plain.
    Look, you may catch a glint of light,
    A sparkle through the pane,
    Showing the place is brighter still
    Within, though bright without.
    There, at a cosy open fire
    Strange babes are grouped about.
    The children of the wind and tide -
    The urchins of the sky,
    Drying their wings from storms and things
    So they again can fly.

Vachel Lindsay

What the Coal-heaver Said

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)

    The moon's an open furnace door
    Where all can see the blast,
    We shovel in our blackest griefs,
    Upon that grate are cast
    Our aching burdens, loves and fears
    And underneath them wait
    Paper and tar and pitch and pine
    Called strife and blood and hate.

    Out of it all there comes a flame,
    A splendid widening light.
    Sorrow is turned to mystery
    And Death into delight.

Vachel Lindsay

What the Moon Saw

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)

    Two statesmen met by moonlight.
    Their ease was partly feigned.
    They glanced about the prairie.
    Their faces were constrained.
    In various ways aforetime
    They had misled the state,
    Yet did it so politely
    Their henchmen thought them great.
    They sat beneath a hedge and spake
    No word, but had a smoke.
    A satchel passed from hand to hand.
    Next day, the deadlock broke.

Vachel Lindsay

What the Gray-winged Fairy Said

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)

    The moon's a gong, hung in the wild,
    Whose song the fays hold dear.
    Of course you do not hear it, child.
    It takes a FAIRY ear.

    The full moon is a splendid gong
    That beats as night grows still.
    It sounds above the evening song
    Of dove or whippoorwill.

Vachel Lindsay

What the Snow Man Said

    The Moon's a snowball.    See the drifts
    Of white that cross the sphere.
    The Moon's a snowball, melted down
    A dozen times a year.

    Yet rolled again in hot July
    When all my days are done
    And cool to greet the weary eye
    After the scorching sun.

    The moon's a piece of winter fair
    Renewed the year around,
    Behold it, deathless and unstained,
    Above the grimy ground!

    It rolls on high so brave and white
    Where the clear air-rivers flow,
    Proclaiming Christmas all the time
    And the glory of the snow!

Vachel Lindsay