The Song of the Garden-Toad

    Down, down beneath the daisy beds,
    O hear the cries of pain!
    And moaning on the cinder-path
    They're blind amid the rain.
    Can murmurs of the worms arise
    To higher hearts than mine?
    I wonder if that gardener hears
    Who made the mold all fine
    And packed each gentle seedling down
    So carefully in line?

    I watched the red rose reaching up
    To ask him if he heard
    Those cries that stung the evening earth
    Till all the rose-roots stirred.
    She asked him if he felt the hate
    That burned beneath them there.
    She asked him if he heard the curse
    Of worms in black despair.
    He kissed the rose.    What did it mean?
    What of the rose's prayer?

    Down, down where rain has never come
    They fight in burning graves,
    Bleeding and drinking blood
    Within those venom-caves.
    Blaspheming still the gardener's name,
    They live and hate and go.
    I wonder if the gardener heard
    The rose that told him so?

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

This, My Song, Is Made for Kerensky

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Jingo and the Minstrel

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Niagara

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Ghosts of the Buffaloes

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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Rose And Roof-Tree.

O wayward rose, why dost thou wreathe so high,
Wasting thyself in sweet-breath'd ecstasy?

"The pulses of the wind my life uplift,
And through my sprays I feel the sunlight sift;

"And all my fibres, in a quick consent
Entwined, aspire to fill their heavenward bent.

"I feel the shaking of the far-off sea,
And all things growing blend their life with me:

"When men and women on me look, there glows
Within my veins a life not of the rose.

"Then let me grow, until I touch the sky,
And let me grow and grow until I die!"

So, every year, the sweet rose shooteth higher,
And scales the roof upon its wings of fire,

And pricks the air, in lovely discontent,
With thorns that question still of its intent.

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Treachery.

        I.

Came a spicy smell of showers
On the purple wings of night,
And a pearl-encrusted crescent
On the lake looked still and white,
While a sound of distant singing
From the vales rose sad and light.


        II.

Dripped the musk of sodden roses
From their million heavy sprays,
And the nightingales were sobbing
Of the roses amorous praise
Where the raven down of even
Caught the moonlight's bleaching rays.


        III.

And the turrets of the palace,
From its belt of ancient trees,
On the mountain rose romantic
White as foam from troubled seas;
And the murmur of an ocean
Smote the chords of ev'ry breeze.


        IV.

Where the moon shone on the terrace
And its foun...

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The Old Garden

Spurge and sea-pink, hyssop blue,
Dragonhead of purple hue;
Catnip, frosted green and gray,
With blue butterflies a-sway,
These may point you out the way.

These and Summer's acolytes,
Crickets, singing days and nights,
Tell you the old road again;
And adown the tangled lane
Lead you to her window-pane.

Goldenrod and goldenglow
Crowd the gate in which you go;
To your arm they cling and catch,
Kiss the hand that lifts the latch,
Guide you to her garden-patch.

O'er the fence the hollyhock
Leans to greet you; and the stock
Looks as if it thought, "I knew
You were coming. Gave the cue
To the place to welcome you."

And the crumpled marigold
And the dahlia, big and bold,
With Sweet Williams, white and red,
No...

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The Old Spring

I

Under rocks whereon the rose
Like a streak of morning glows;
Where the azure-throated newt
Drowses on the twisted root;
And the brown bees, humming homeward,
Stop to suck the honeydew;
Fern- and leaf-hid, gleaming gloamward,
Drips the wildwood spring I knew,
Drips the spring my boyhood knew.

II

Myrrh and music everywhere
Haunt its cascades - like the hair
That a Naiad tosses cool,
Swimming strangely beautiful,
With white fragrance for her bosom,
And her mouth a breath of song -
Under leaf and branch and blossom
Flows the woodland spring along,
Sparkling, singing flows along.

III

Still the wet wan mornings touch
Its gray rocks, perhaps; and such
Slender stars as dusk may have
Pierce the ros...

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Wood-Words

I.

The spirits of the forest,
That to the winds give voice -
I lie the livelong April day
And wonder what it is they say
That makes the leaves rejoice.

The spirits of the forest,
That breathe in bud and bloom -
I walk within the black-haw brake
And wonder how it is they make
The bubbles of perfume.

The spirits of the forest,
That live in every spring -
I lean above the brook's bright blue
And wonder what it is they do
That makes the water sing.

The spirits of the forest.
That haunt the sun's green glow -
Down fungus ways of fern I steal
And wonder what they can conceal,
In dews, that twinkles so.

The spirits of the forest,
They hold me, heart and hand -
And, oh! the bird they send by light,
...

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The Scarlet Lilies

I see her as though she were standing yet
    In her tower at the end of the town,
When the hot sun mounts and when dusk comes down,
    With her two hands laid on the parapet;
The curve of her throat as she turns this way,
    The bend of her body - I see it all;
And the watching eyes that look day by day
    O'er the flood that runs by the city wall.

The winds by the river would come and go
    On the flame-red gown she was wont to wear,
And the scarlet lilies that crowned her hair,
    And the scarlet lilies that grew below.
I used to lie like a wolf in his lair,
    With a burning heart and a soul in thrall,
Gazing across in a fume of despair
    O'er the flood that runs by the river wall.

I saw when he came with his tiger's eyes,
    That...

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