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

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 Explanation of the Grasshopper

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

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

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Euclid

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Here's to the Mice!

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Beggar Speaks

        "What Mister Moon Said to Me."

    Come, eat the bread of idleness,
    Come, sit beside the spring:
    Some of the flowers will keep awake,
    Some of the birds will sing.

    Come, eat the bread no man has sought
    For half a hundred years:
    Men hurry so they have no griefs,
    Nor even idle tears:

    They hurry so they have no loves:
    They cannot curse nor laugh -
    Their hearts die in their youth with neither
    Grave nor epitaph.

    My bread would make them careless,
    And never quite on time -
    Their eyelids would be heavy,
    Their fancies full of rhyme:

    Each soul a mystic rose-tree,
    Or a curious incense tree:
            .        .        .        .
    Come, eat th...

Vachel Lindsay

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

What the Miner in the Desert Said

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

    The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg,
    A wondrous water-feast.
    If I could climb the ridge and drink
    And give drink to my beast;
    If I could drain that keg, the flies
    Would not be biting so,
    My burning feet be spry again,
    My mule no longer slow.
    And I could rise and dig for ore,
    And reach my fatherland,
    And not be food for ants and hawks
    And perish in the sand.

Vachel Lindsay

Written for a Musician

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

    Hungry for music with a desperate hunger
    I prowled abroad, I threaded through the town;
    The evening crowd was clamoring and drinking,
    Vulgar and pitiful - my heart bowed down -
    Till I remembered duller hours made noble
    By strangers clad in some surprising grace.
    Wait, wait, my soul, your music comes ere midnight
    Appearing in some unexpected place
    With quivering lips, and gleaming, moonlit face.

Vachel Lindsay

Upon Returning to the Country Road

    Even the shrewd and bitter,
    Gnarled by the old world's greed,
    Cherished the stranger softly
    Seeing his utter need.
    Shelter and patient hearing,
    These were their gifts to him,
    To the minstrel, grimly begging
    As the sunset-fire grew dim.
    The rich said "You are welcome."
    Yea, even the rich were good.
    How strange that in their feasting
    His songs were understood!
    The doors of the poor were open,
    The poor who had wandered too,
    Who had slept with ne'er a roof-tree
    Under the wind and dew.
    The minds of the poor were open,
    Their dark mistrust was dead.
    They loved his wizard stories,
    They bought his rhymes with bread.
    Those were his days of glory,
    Of faith in ...

Vachel Lindsay

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