The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith's Son

    The North Star whispers:    "You are one
    Of those whose course no chance can change.
    You blunder, but are not undone,
    Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.

    "When here you walk, a bloodless shade,
    A singer all men else forget.
    Your chants of hammer, forge and spade
    Will move the prairie-village yet.

    "That young, stiff-necked, reviling town
    Beholds your fancies on her walls,
    And paints them out or tears them down,
    Or bars them from her feasting-halls.

    "Yet shall the fragments still remain;
    Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong
    That ivy-vines will not disdain,
    Haunted and trembling with your song.

    "Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn,
    Flame high in storms, flame white and clear;
    Your ghost in gleaming robes return
    And burn a deathless incense here."

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

Upon Returning to the Country Road

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

What the Forester Said

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Our Guardian Angels and Their Children

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Mouse that gnawed the Oak-tree Down

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 Voice Of The North.

You have builded your ships in the sun-lands,
    And launched them with song and wine;
They are boweled with your stanchest engines,
    And masted with bravest pine;
You have met in your closet councils,
    With your plans and your prayers to God
For a fortunate wind to waft you
    Where never a foot has trod.

And now you follow the polar star
    To the seat of the old Norse Kings,
Past the death-white halls of Valhalla,
    Where the Norn to the tempest sings--
Follow the steady needle
    That cleaves to its steady star
To the uttermost realms of Odin
    And the warlike thunderer, Thor.

Far through the icy silence,
    Where the glacier's teeth hang white,
And even the sun-god Baldur,
    Looks down in vague affright,
Yo...

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

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 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

Hymn To The North Star.

The sad and solemn night
Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;
The glorious host of light
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;
All through her silent watches, gliding slow,
Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.

Day, too, hath many a star
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they:
Through the blue fields afar,
Unseen, they follow in his flaming way:
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,
Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.

And thou dost see them rise,
Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.
Alone, in thy cold skies,
Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,
Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,
Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.

There, at morn'...

William Cullen Bryant

The Scissors-grinder

    The old man had his box and wheel
    For grinding knives and shears.
    No doubt his bell in village streets
    Was joy to children's ears.
    And I bethought me of my youth
    When such men came around,
    And times I asked them in, quite sure
    The scissors should be ground.
    The old man turned and spoke to me,
    His face at last in view.
    And then I thought those curious eyes
    Were eyes that once I knew.

    "The moon is but an emery-wheel
    To whet the sword of God,"
    He said.    "And here beside my fire
    I stretch upon the sod
    Each night, and dream, and watch the stars
    And watch the ghost-clouds go.
    And see that sword of God in Heaven
    A-waving to and fro.
    I see that sword each ce...

Vachel Lindsay

The Hearth Eternal

    There dwelt a widow learned and devout,
    Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill.
    Three sons she had, who went to find the world.
    They promised to return, but wandered still.
    The cities used them well, they won their way,
    Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs.
    Worn out with honors, and apart from her,
    They died as many a self-made exile dies.
    The mother had a hearth that would not quench,
    The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom.
    She said to us who came with wondering eyes -
    "This is a magic fire, a magic room."
    The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on,
    Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade,
    And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light.
    The neighbors peering in wer...

Vachel Lindsay