Vachel Lindsay

    My lady in her white silk shawl
        Is like a lily dim,
    Within the twilight of the room
        Enthroned and kind and prim.

    My lady!    Pale gold is her hair.
        Until she smiles her face
    Is pale with far Hellenic moods,
        With thoughts that find no place

    In our harsh village of the West
        Wherein she lives of late,
    She's distant as far-hidden stars,
        And cold - (almost!) - as fate.

    But when she smiles she's here again
        Rosy with comrade-cheer,
    A Puritan Bacchante made
        To laugh around the year.

    The merry gentle moon herself,
        Heart-stirring too, like her,
    Wakening wild and innocent love
        In every worshipper.

    I

Within the town of Buffalo
Are prosy men with leaden eyes.
Like ants they worry to and fro,
(Important men, in Buffalo.)
But only twenty miles away
A deathless glory is at play:
Niagara, Niagara.

The women buy their lace and cry: -
"O such a delicate design,"
And over ostrich feathers sigh,
By counters there, in Buffalo.
The children haunt the trinket shops,
They buy false-faces, bells, and tops,
Forgetting great Niagara.

Within the town of Buffalo
Are stores with garnets, sapphires, pearls,
Rubies, emeralds aglow, -
Opal chains in Buffalo,
Cherished symbols of success.
They value not your rainbow dress: -
Niagara, Niagara.

The shaggy meaning of her name
This Buffalo, this recreant town,
Sha...

    Girl with the burning golden eyes,
    And red-bird song, and snowy throat:
    I bring you gold and silver moons
    And diamond stars, and mists that float.
    I bring you moons and snowy clouds,
    I bring you prairie skies to-night
    To feebly praise your golden eyes
    And red-bird song, and throat so white.

[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.]


    In the midst of the battle I turned,
    (For the thunders could flourish without me)
    And hid by a rose-hung wall,
    Forgetting the murder about me;
    And wrote, from my wound, on the stone,
    In mirth, half prayer, half play: -
    "Send me a picture book,
    Send me a song, to-day."

    I saw him there by the wall
    When I scarce had written the line,
    In the enemy's colors dressed
    And the serpent-standard of wine
    Writhing its withered length
    From his ghostly hands o'er the ground,
    And there by his shadowy breast
    The glorious poem I found.

    This was his world-old cry:
    Thus read the famous prayer:
    "Wine, wine, wine a...

    Let not our town be large, remembering
    That little Athens was the Muses' home,
    That Oxford rules the heart of London still,
    That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome.

    Record it for the grandson of your son -
    A city is not builded in a day:
    Our little town cannot complete her soul
    Till countless generations pass away.

    Now let each child be joined as to a church
    To her perpetual hopes, each man ordained:
    Let every street be made a reverent aisle
    Where Music grows and Beauty is unchained.

    Let Science and Machinery and Trade
    Be slaves of her, and make her all in all,
    Building against our blatant, restless time
    An unseen, skilful, medieval wall.

    Let every citizen be rich to...

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

    Oh, once I walked a garden
    In dreams.    'Twas yellow grass.
    And many orange-trees grew there
    In sand as white as glass.
    The curving, wide wall-border
    Was marble, like the snow.
    I walked that wall a fairy-prince
    And, pacing quaint and slow,
    Beside me were my pages,
    Two giant, friendly birds.
    Half-swan they were, half peacock.
    They spake in courtier-words.
    Their inner wings a chariot,
    Their outer wings for flight,
    They lifted me from dreamland.
    We bade those trees good-night.
    Swiftly above the stars we rode.
    I looked below me soon.
    The white-walled garden I had ruled
    Was one lone flower - the moon.

    On the road to nowhere
    What wild oats did you sow
    When you left your father's house
    With your cheeks aglow?
    Eyes so strained and eager
    To see what you might see?
    Were you thief or were you fool
    Or most nobly free?

    Were the tramp-days knightly,
    True sowing of wild seed?
    Did you dare to make the songs
    Vanquished workmen need?
    Did you waste much money
    To deck a leper's feast?
    Love the truth, defy the crowd
    Scandalize the priest?
    On the road to nowhere
    What wild oats did you sow?
    Stupids find the nowhere-road
    Dusty, grim and slow.

    Ere their sowing's ended
    They turn them on their track,
    Look at the caitiff craven wights
    Repe...

Where a river roars in rapids
And doves in maples fret,
Where peace has decked the pastures
Our guardian angels met.

Long they had sought each other
In God's mysterious name,
Had climbed the solemn chaos tides
Alone, with hope aflame:

Amid the demon deeps had wound
By many a fearful way.
As they beheld each other
Their shout made glad the day.

No need of purse delayed them,
No hand of friend or kin -
Nor menace of the bell and book,
Nor fear of mortal sin.

You did not speak, my girl,
At this, our parting hour.
Long we held each other
And watched their deeds of power.

They made a curious Eden.
We saw that it was good.
We thought with them in unison.
We proudly understood

Their amaranth ...

(Note: - Pocahontas is buried at Gravesend, England.)

"Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May - did she wonder? does she remember - in the dust - in the cool tombs?"

    Carl Sandburg.



I

Powhatan was conqueror,
Powhatan was emperor.
He was akin to wolf and bee,
Brother of the hickory tree.
Son of the red lightning stroke
And the lightning-shivered oak.
His panther-grace bloomed in the maid
Who laughed among the winds and played
In excellence of savage pride,
Wooing the forest, open-eyed,
In the springtime,
In Virginia,
Our Mother, Pocahontas.

Her skin was rosy copper-red.
And high she held her beauteous head.
Her step was like a rustling leaf:
Her hea...

Where does Cinderella sleep?
By far-off day-dream river.
A secret place her burning Prince
Decks, while his heart-strings quiver.

Homesick for our cinder world,
Her low-born shoulders shiver;
She longs for sleep in cinders curled -
We, for the day-dream river.

        I. The Lion


    The Lion is a kingly beast.
    He likes a Hindu for a feast.
    And if no Hindu he can get,
    The lion-family is upset.

    He cuffs his wife and bites her ears
    Till she is nearly moved to tears.
    Then some explorer finds the den
    And all is family peace again.



        II.    An Explanation of the Grasshopper


    The Grasshopper, the grasshopper,
    I will explain to you: -
    He is the Brownies' racehorse,
    The fairies' Kangaroo.



        III.    The Dangerous Little Boy Fairies


    In fairyland the little boys
    Would rather fight than eat their meals.
    They like to chase a gauze-winged fly
    And catch and beat him till he ...

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

    No man should stand before the moon
    To make sweet song thereon,
    With dandified importance,
    His sense of humor gone.

    Nay, let us don the motley cap,
    The jester's chastened mien,
    If we would woo that looking-glass
    And see what should be seen.

    O mirror on fair Heaven's wall,
    We find there what we bring.
    So, let us smile in honest part
    And deck our souls and sing.

    Yea, by the chastened jest alone
    Will ghosts and terrors pass,
    And fays, or suchlike friendly things,
    Throw kisses through the glass.

    Once I loved a fairy,
    Queen Mab it was.    Her voice
    Was like a little Fountain
    That bids the birds rejoice.
    Her face was wise and solemn,
    Her hair was brown and fine.
    Her dress was pansy velvet,
    A butterfly design.

    To see her hover round me
    Or walk the hills of air,
    Awakened love's deep pulses
    And boyhood's first despair;
    A passion like a sword-blade
    That pierced me thro' and thro':
    Her fingers healed the sorrow
    Her whisper would renew.
    We sighed and reigned and feasted
    Within a hollow tree,
    We vowed our love was boundless,
    Eternal as the sea.

    She banished from her kingdom
    The mortal boy I grew -
    So tall and crude and noisy,

    Your pen needs but a ruffle
    To be Pavlova whirling.
    It surely is a scalawag
    A-scamping down the page.
    A pretty little May-wind
    The morning buds uncurling.
    And then the white sweet Russian,
    The dancer of the age.

    Your pen's the Queen of Sheba,
    Such serious questions bringing,
    That merry rascal Solomon
    Would show a sober face: -
    And then again Pavlova
    To set our spirits singing,
    The snowy-swan bacchante
    All glamour, glee and grace.

    Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk -
    Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure:
    A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger: -
    Here in my study you sing me a measure.

    Whimsy and song in my little gray study!
    Words out of wonderland, praising her fineness,
    Touched with her pulsating, delicate laughter,
    Saying, "The girl is all daring and kindness!"

    Saying, "Her soul is all feminine gameness,
    Trusting her insights, ardent for living;
    She would be weeping with me and be laughing,
    A thoroughbred, joyous receiving and giving!"

    This doll upon the topmost bough,
    This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress,
    Was taken down and brought to me
    One sleety night most comfortless.

    Her hair was gold, her dolly-sash
    Was gray brocade, most good to see.
    The dear toy laughed, and I forgot
    The ill the new year promised me.

    The gleaming head of one fine friend
    Is bent above my little song,
    So through the treasure-pits of Heaven
    In fancy's shoes, I march along.

    I wander, seek and peer and ponder
    In Splendor's last ensnaring lair -
    'Mid burnished harps and burnished crowns
    Where noble chariots gleam and flare:

    Amid the spirit-coins and gems,
    The plates and cups and helms of fire -
    The gorgeous-treasure-pits of Heaven -
    Where angel-misers slake desire!

    O endless treasure-pits of gold
    Where silly angel-men make mirth -
    I think that I am there this hour,
    Though walking in the ways of earth!

    Would that in body and spirit Shakespeare came
    Visible emperor of the deeds of Time,
    With Justice still the genius of his rhyme,
    Giving each man his due, each passion grace,
    Impartial as the rain from Heaven's face
    Or sunshine from the heaven-enthroned sun.
    Sweet Swan of Avon, come to us again.
    Teach us to write, and writing, to be men.