Vachel Lindsay

A curse upon each king who leads his state, No matter what his plea, to this foul game, And may it end his wicked dynasty,

To be intoned, all but the two italicized lines, which are to be spoken in a snappy, matter-of-fact way. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong. Here lies a kitten good, who kept

[What the Man of Faith said] The dew, the rain and moonlight All prove our Father's mind.

Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven? Are these your hands upon my wounded soul? Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,

I look on the specious electrical light Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white, Wickedly red or malignantly green

St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John - Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare,

(In Springfield, Illinois) It is portentous, and a thing of state That here at midnight, in our little town

"Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. "This tailor-shop sings not at all. Chant me a word of the twilight,

I know a seraph who has golden eyes, And hair of gold, and body like the snow. Here in the wind I dream her unbound hair

Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small,

I.    The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias We find your soft Utopias as white As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells,

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

(In the Beginning) The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy,

No doubt to-morrow I will hide My face from you, my King. Let me rejoice this Sunday noon,

[Written to the Most Beautiful Woman in the World] My Sweetheart is the TRUTH BEYOND THE MOON, And never have I been in love with Woman,

(After seeing the reel called "Oil and Water".) Beauty has a throne-room In our humorous town,

Would that by Hindu magic we became Dark monks of jeweled India long ago, Sitting at Prince Siddartha's feet to know

Sometimes we remember kisses, Remember the dear heart-leap when they came: Not always, but sometimes we remember

Upon her breast her hands and hair Were tangled all together. The moon of June forbade me not -

I. God Send the Regicide Would that the lying rulers of the world Were brought to block for tyrannies abhorred.

The foolish queen of fairyland From her milk-white throne in a lily-bell, Gave command to her cricket-band

Too soon you wearied of our tears. And then you danced with spangled feet, Leading Belshazzar's chattering court

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) (What the Carpenter Said) The moon's a cottage with a door.

[Supposed to be chanted to some rude instrument at a modern fireplace] Chant we the story now Tho' in a house we sleep;

Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, On sunny days have found you weak and still, Though I have often held your girlish head

I. Edwin Booth An old actor at the Player's Club told me that Edwin Booth first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California. There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude assembly rooms for strolling players. The youth played in the blear hotel.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) Old Euclid drew a circle On a sand-beach long ago.

Factory windows are always broken. Somebody's always throwing bricks, Somebody's always heaving cinders,

An endless line of splendor, These troops with heaven for home, With creeds they go from Scotland,

A Poem Dedicated to All Crusaders against the International and Interstate Traffic in Young Girls Galahad... soldier that perished... ages ago, Our hearts are breaking with shame, our tears overflow.

[To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated instrument] [BASS DRUM BEATEN LOUDLY]

I was but a half-grown boy, You were a girl-child slight. Ah, how weary you were!

"Tell me, where do ghosts in love Find their bridal veils?" "If you and I were ghosts in love

On - Thro' the gleaming gray I ran to the storm and clang -

How the red bells rang As I neared the Chaos-shore! As I flew across to the end of the West

O great heart of God, Once vague and lost to me, Why do I throb with your throb to-night,

(Written with the hope that the socialists might yet dethrone Kaiser and Czar.) Here's to the mice that scare the lions, Creeping into their cages.

We are the smirched.    Queen Honor is the spotless. We slept thro' wars where Honor could not sleep. We were faint-hearted.    Honor was full-valiant.

Oh, once I walked in Heaven, all alone Upon the sacred cliffs above the sky. God and the angels, and the gleaming saints

(A Negro Sermon.) Once, in a night as black as ink, She drove him out when he would not drink.

Dedicated to Lucy Bates (Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.) Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer,

Ah, she was music in herself, A symphony of joyousness. She sang, she sang from finger tips,

(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.) This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the well-known tune: - "Last night I lay a-sleeping,

I went down into the desert To meet Elijah - Arisen from the dead.

The angels guide him now, And watch his curly head, And lead him in their games,

After having read a Great Deal of Good Current Poetry in the Magazines and Newspapers Ah, they are passing, passing by, Wonderful songs, but born to die!

Think not that incense-smoke has had its day. My friends, the incense-time has but begun. Creed upon creed, cult upon cult shall bloom,

[Written while a field-worker in the Anti-Saloon League of Illinois.] King Arthur's men have come again. They challenge everywhere

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, That which is gendered in the wilderness From lonely prairies and God's tenderness.

Look you, I'll go pray, My shame is crying, My soul is gray and faint,

True Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance In stones of Forbearance and mortar of Pain. The workman lays wearily granite on granite,

In "Man's Genesis", "The Wild Girl of the Sierras", "The Wharf Rat", "A Girl of the Paris Streets", etc. I The arts are old, old as the stones

When Yankee soldiers reach the barricade Then Joan of Arc gives each the accolade. For she is there in armor clad, today,

Would I might wake in you the whirl-wind soul Of Michelangelo, who hewed the stone And Night and Day revealed, whose arm alone

My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room

I Within the town of Buffalo Are prosy men with leaden eyes.

[During an anti-saloon campaign, in central Illinois.] In the midst of the battle I turned, (For the thunders could flourish without me)

Let not our town be large, remembering That little Athens was the Muses' home, That Oxford rules the heart of London still,

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) Oh, once I walked a garden In dreams.    'Twas yellow grass.

On the road to nowhere What wild oats did you sow When you left your father's house

Girl with the burning golden eyes, And red-bird song, and snowy throat: I bring you gold and silver moons

Where a river roars in rapids And doves in maples fret, Where peace has decked the pastures

(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.

Where does Cinderella sleep? By far-off day-dream river. A secret place her burning Prince

I. The Lion The Lion is a kingly beast. He likes a Hindu for a feast.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) No man should stand before the moon To make sweet song thereon,

Once I loved a fairy, Queen Mab it was.    Her voice Was like a little Fountain

This doll upon the topmost bough, This playmate-gift, in Christmas dress, Was taken down and brought to me

Oh, saucy gold circle of fairyland silk - Impudent, intimate, delicate treasure: A noose for my heart and a ring for my finger: -

Your pen needs but a ruffle To be Pavlova whirling. It surely is a scalawag

The gleaming head of one fine friend Is bent above my little song, So through the treasure-pits of Heaven

Would that in body and spirit Shakespeare came Visible emperor of the deeds of Time, With Justice still the genius of his rhyme,

In this, the City of my Discontent, Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass, "Romance, Romance - is here.    No Hindu town

Would I might wake St. Francis in you all, Brother of birds and trees, God's Troubadour, Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor;

Star of my heart, I follow from afar. Sweet Love on high, lead on where shepherds are, Where Time is not, and only dreamers are.

For a Very Little Girl, Not a Year Old.    Catharine Frazee Wakefield. The sun gives not directly The coal, the diamond crown;

We are happy all the time Even when we fight: Sweet briars of the stairways,

Sweetheart Spring Our Sweetheart, Spring, came softly, Her gliding hands were fire,

Thou wilt not sentence to eternal life My soul that prays that it may sleep and sleep Like a white statue dropped into the deep,

Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here.... Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns And the tremendous Amaranth descends

I saw wild domes and bowers And smoking incense towers And mad exotic flowers

I opened the ink-well and smoke filled the room. The smoke formed the giant frog-cat of my doom. His web feet left dreadful slime tracks on the floor.

"What Mister Moon Said to Me." Come, eat the bread of idleness, Come, sit beside the spring:

Kiss me and comfort my heart Maiden honest and fine. I am the pilgrim boy

Written for Lorado Taft's Statue of Black Hawk at Oregon, Illinois To be given in the manner of the Indian Oration and the Indian War-Cry. Hawk of the Rocks,

A Memorial to Booker T. Washington I. Simon Legree A Negro Sermon. (To be read in your own variety of negro dialect.)

A little colt - broncho, loaned to the farm To be broken in time without fury or harm, Yet black crows flew past you, shouting alarm,

"How, how," he said. "Friend Chang," I said, "San Francisco sleeps as the dead - Ended license, lust and play:

Climbing the heights of Berkeley Nightly I watch the West. There lies new San Francisco,

A Study of the Negro Race I.    Their Basic Savagery Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,

The cornfields rise above mankind, Lifting white torches to the blue, Each season not ashamed to be

O dandelion, rich and haughty, King of village flowers! Each day is coronation time,

In fairyland the little boys Would rather fight than eat their meals. They like to chase a gauze-winged fly

"Yes," said the sister with the little pinched face, The busy little sister with the funny little tract: - "This is the climax, the grand fifth act.

[John P. Altgeld.    Born Dec. 30, 1847; died March 12, 1902] Sleep softly * * * eagle forgotten * * * under the stone. Time has its way with you there, and the clay has its own.

Why do I see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas? One haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze, Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass:

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) "If I could set the moon upon This table," said my friend,

[This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone, sung by the Locust choir when the fairy child marries her God, the yellow rose] This is a song to the white-armed one Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring,

Section One "Give the engines room, Give the engines room."

(To Eudora, after I had had certain dire adventures.) When Dragon-fly would fix his wings, When Snail would patch his house,

Life's a jail where men have common lot. Gaunt the one who has, and who has not. All our treasures neither less nor more,

Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry, The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high, The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar,

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) (What Uncle William told the Children) Twelve snails went walking after night.

There dwelt a widow learned and devout, Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill. Three sons she had, who went to find the world.

Though I have watched so many mourners weep O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep - Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days

O you who lose the art of hope, Whose temples seem to shrine a lie, Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear,

"To the farthest star of all, Go, make a moment's raid. To the west - escape the earth

These, the Wings of the Morning, An Indian Maiden wove, Intertwining subtilely

An Argument for the Maintenance of Peace and Goodwill with the Japanese People Glossary for the uninstructed and the hasty:    Jimmu Tenno, ancestor of all the Japanese Emperors; Nikko, Japan's loveliest shrine; Iyeyasu, her greatest statesman; Bushido, her code of knighthood; The Forty-seven Ronins, her classic heroes; Nogi, her latest hero; Fuji, her most beautiful mountain. # The minstrel speaks. #

A thousand times ten thousand times More swift than the sun's swift light Were the Morning Wings in their flight

The King of Yellow Butterflies, The King of Yellow Butterflies, The King of Yellow Butterflies,

[Concerning O. Henry (Sidney Porter)] "He could not forget that he was a Sidney." Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this loud clown,

Let not young souls be smothered out before They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride. It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,

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

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

Written to Miss Alice L. F. Fitzgerald, Edith Cavell memorial nurse, going to the front. Your fine white hand is Heaven's gift To cure the wide world, stricken sore,

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) He coveted her portrait. He toiled as she grew gay.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) (What the Little Girl Said) The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.

The mouse that gnawed the oak-tree down Began his task in early life. He kept so busy with his teeth

A chant for a children's pantomime dance, suggested by a picture painted by George Mather Richards. I saw a proud, mysterious cat, I saw a proud, mysterious cat

The North Star whispers:    "You are one Of those whose course no chance can change. You blunder, but are not undone,

The moon's a peck of corn.    It lies Heaped up for me to eat. I wish that I might climb the path

I I hate this yoke; for the world's sake here put it on: Knowing 'twill weigh as much on you till life is gone.

"Down cellar," said the cricket, "I saw a ball last night In honor of a lady

I "Down cellar," said the cricket, "Down cellar," said the cricket,

(To Edgar Lee Masters, with great respect.) Here upon the prairie Is our ancestral hall.

[In memory of E. S. Frazee, Rush County, Indiana] Into the acres of the newborn state He poured his strength, and plowed his ancient name,

[Written for a picture] The Youth speaks: - "Why do you seek the sun

The whole world on a raft! A King is here, The record of his grandeur but a smear. Is it his deacon-beard, or old bald pate

I asked the old Negro, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He answered:    "That is the Rachel-Jane."    "Hasn't it another name, lark, or thrush, or the like?"    "No.    Jus' Rachel-Jane." I.    In which a Racing Auto comes from the East # To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune. #

The old man had his box and wheel For grinding knives and shears. No doubt his bell in village streets

Down, down beneath the daisy beds, O hear the cries of pain! And moaning on the cinder-path

I asked her, "Is Aladdin's lamp Hidden anywhere?" "Look into your heart," she said,

A Broadside distributed in Springfield, Illinois Censers are swinging Over the town;

This is the song The spice-tree sings: "Hunger and fire,

Once I loved a spider When I was born a fly, A velvet-footed spider

(What the Mendicant Said) The moon's a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky.

"The sun says his prayers," said the fairy, Or else he would wither and die. "The sun says his prayers," said the fairy,

A Fantasy, dedicated to the little poet Alice Oliver Henderson, ten years old. The Fantasy shows how tiger-hearts are the cause of war in all ages. It shows how the mammoth forces may be either friends or enemies of the struggle for peace. It shows how the dream of peace is unconquerable and eternal.

She was taught desire in the street, Not at the angels' feet. By the good no word was said

(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment) I would be one with the dark, dark earth:—

[A Poem for Aviators] How the Wings Were Made From many morning-glories

This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: - To speak of bloody power as right divine, And call on God to guard each vile chief's house,

The wide Pacific waters And the Atlantic meet. With cries of joy they mingle,

[Concerning Edgar Allan Poe] Who now will praise the Wizard in the street With loyal songs, with humors grave and sweet -

This section is a Christmas tree: Loaded with pretty toys for you. Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks,

(Being a Chant of the American Soap-Box and the Russian Revolution.) O market square, O slattern place, Is glory in your slack disgrace?

Would that such hills and cities round us sang, Such vistas of the actual earth and man As kindled Titian when his life began;

Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend,

Two Poems, written on the Sinking of the Lusitania. Appearing in the Chicago 'Herald', May 11, 1915. I. Speak Now for Peace

Romance was always young. You come today Just eight years old

(On hearing she was leaving the moving-pictures for the stage.) Mary Pickford, doll divine, Year by year, and every day

'Tis not too late to build our young land right, Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan, Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers,

[Revelation 16: Verses 16-19] And must the Senator from Illinois Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes?

Two old crows sat on a fence rail, Two old crows sat on a fence rail, Thinking of effect and cause,

Even the shrewd and bitter, Gnarled by the old world's greed, Cherished the stranger softly

Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning, I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning, With golden hope my spirit still adorning.

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

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) The moon's a steaming chalice Of honey and venom-wine.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) The moon's an open furnace door Where all can see the blast,

The moon is but a candle-glow That flickers thro' the gloom: The starry space, a castle hall:

Where now the huts are empty, Where never a camp-fire glows, In an abandoned canyon,

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) The moon's a gong, hung in the wild, Whose song the fays hold dear.

The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg, A wondrous water-feast.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) Two statesmen met by moonlight. Their ease was partly feigned.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) The moon's a little prairie-dog. He shivers through the night.

The dim-winged spirits of the night Do fear and serve me well. They creep from out the hedges of

The Moon's a snowball.    See the drifts Of white that cross the sphere. The Moon's a snowball, melted down

When Bryan speaks, the town's a hive. From miles around, the autos drive. The sparrow chirps. The rooster crows.

He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour Just to invent a fancy style To spread the celebration paint

(Matthew 5:38-48) Who can surrender to Christ, dividing his best with the stranger, Giving to each what he asks, braving the uttermost danger

Where is David? . . .    O God's people, Saul has passed, the good and great. Mourn for Saul the first-anointed -

They say one king is mad.    Perhaps.    Who knows? They say one king is doddering and grey. They say one king is slack and sick of mind,

I am unjust, but I can strive for justice. My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness. I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.

I saw Lord Buddha towering by my gate Saying:    "Once more, good youth, I stand and wait." Saying:    "I bring you my fair Law of Peace

(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;

This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky.    To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion.    It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday. Dawn this morning burned all red Watching them in wonder.

(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children) (What Grandpa told the Children) The moon?    It is a griffin's egg,