What the Forester Said

    The moon is but a candle-glow
    That flickers thro' the gloom:
    The starry space, a castle hall:
    And Earth, the children's room,
    Where all night long the old trees stand
    To watch the streams asleep:
    Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds:
    Good shepherds guarding sheep.

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 Indian Summer Day on the Prairie

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The Raft

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

Yankee Doodle

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

The City That Will Not Repent

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 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

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

Eden in Winter

[Supposed to be chanted to some rude instrument at a modern fireplace]


    Chant we the story now
    Tho' in a house we sleep;
    Tho' by a hearth of coals
    Vigil to-night we keep.
    Chant we the story now,
    Of the vague love we knew
    When I from out the sea
    Rose to the feet of you.

    Bird from the cliffs you came,
    Flew thro' the snow to me,
    Facing the icy blast
    There by the icy sea.
    How did I reach your feet?
    Why should I - at the end
    Hold out half-frozen hands
    Dumbly to you my friend?
    Ne'er had I woman seen,
    Ne'er had I seen a flame.
    There you piled fagots on,
    Heat rose - the blast to tame.
    There by the cave-door dark,
    Comforting me you crie...

Vachel Lindsay

Vagrancy

When the slow year creeps hay-ward, and the skies
Are warming in the summer's mild surprise,
And the still breeze disturbs each leafy frond
Like hungry fishes dimpling in a pond,
It is a pleasant thing to dream at ease
On sun-warmed thyme, not far from beechen trees.

A robin flashing in a rowan-tree,
A wanton robin, spills his melody
As if he had such store of golden tones
That they were no more worth to him than stones:
The sunny lizards dream upon the ledges:
Linnets titter in and out the hedges,
Or swoop among the freckled butterflies.

Down to a beechen hollow winds the track
And tunnels past my twilit bivouac:
Two spiring wisps of smoke go singly up
And scarcely tremble in the leafy air.

There are more shadows in this loamy cup
...

Richard Arthur Warren Hughes

What Grandpa Mouse Said

    The moon's a holy owl-queen.
    She keeps them in a jar
    Under her arm till evening,
    Then sallies forth to war.

    She pours the owls upon us.
    They hoot with horrid noise
    And eat the naughty mousie-girls
    And wicked mousie-boys.

    So climb the moonvine every night
    And to the owl-queen pray:
    Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees
    For her to take away.

    And never squeak, my children,
    Nor gnaw the smoke-house door:
    The owl-queen then will love us
    And send her birds no more.

Vachel Lindsay