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@@ -0,0 +1,3081 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of General William Booth enters into Heaven +and other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: General William Booth enters into Heaven and other Poems + +Author: Vachel Lindsay + +Posting Date: July 20, 2008 [EBook #424] +Release Date: February, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser. + + + + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas will be indented 5 spaces. +Italicized AND indented stanzas will be indented 10 spaces. +Italicized words or phrases will be capitalised. +Some obvious errors may have been corrected.] + + + + +-------------------------------------------------+ + | By Vachel Lindsay | + | | + | The Congo and Other Poems | + | General William Booth Enters into Heaven | + | The Art of the Moving Picture | + | Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty | + +-------------------------------------------------+ + + + + +General William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems + +by + +Vachel Lindsay + +[Nicholas Vachel Lindsay, Illinois Poet--1879-1931] + + + + +[This etext has been transcribed from a 1916 reprint (New York) +of the original 1913 edition.] + + + + +This book is dedicated to + +Dr. Arthur Paul Wakefield + +and + +Olive Lindsay Wakefield + +Missionaries in China + + + + +Contents + + General William Booth Enters into Heaven + The Drunkards in the Street + The City That Will Not Repent + The Trap + Where is David, the Next King of Israel? + On Reading Omar Khayyam + The Beggar's Valentine + Honor Among Scamps + The Gamblers + On the Road to Nowhere + Upon Returning to the Country Road + The Angel and the Clown + Springfield Magical + Incense + The Wedding of the Rose and the Lotos + King Arthur's Men Have Come Again + Foreign Missions in Battle Array + Star of My Heart + Look You, I'll Go Pray + At Mass + Heart of God + The Empty Boats + With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses + St. Francis of Assisi + Buddha + A Prayer to All the Dead Among Mine Own People + To Reformers in Despair + Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket + To the United States Senate + The Knight in Disguise + The Wizard in the Street + The Eagle that is Forgotten + Shakespeare + Michelangelo + Titian + Lincoln + The Cornfields + Sweet Briars of the Stairways + Fantasies and Whims:-- + The Fairy Bridal Hymn + The Potato's Dance + How a Little Girl Sang + Ghosts in Love + The Queen of Bubbles + The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning + Sweethearts of the Year + The Sorceress! + Caught in a Net + Eden in Winter + Genesis + Queen Mab in the Village + The Dandelion + The Light o' the Moon + A Net to Snare the Moonlight + Beyond the Moon + The Song of the Garden-Toad + A Gospel of Beauty:-- + The Proud Farmer + The Illinois Village + On the Building of Springfield + + + + + General William Booth Enters into Heaven + + [To be sung to the tune of 'The Blood of the Lamb' with indicated + instrument] + + + I + + [Bass drum beaten loudly.] + Booth led boldly with his big bass drum-- + (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) + The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come." + (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) + Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, + Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, + Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale-- + Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail:-- + Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, + Unwashed legions with the ways of Death-- + (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) + + [Banjos.] + Every slum had sent its half-a-score + The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) + Every banner that the wide world flies + Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. + Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, + Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang:-- + "Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?" + Hallelujah! It was queer to see + Bull-necked convicts with that land make free. + Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare + On, on upward thro' the golden air! + (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) + + + II + + [Bass drum slower and softer.] + Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, + Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. + Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief + Eagle countenance in sharp relief, + Beard a-flying, air of high command + Unabated in that holy land. + + [Sweet flute music.] + Jesus came from out the court-house door, + Stretched his hands above the passing poor. + Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there + Round and round the mighty court-house square. + Yet in an instant all that blear review + Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. + The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled + And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world. + + [Bass drum louder.] + Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! + Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl! + Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, + Rulers of empires, and of forests green! + + [Grand chorus of all instruments. Tambourines to the foreground.] + The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! + (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) + But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. + (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) + O, shout Salvation! It was good to see + Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free. + The banjos rattled and the tambourines + Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens. + + [Reverently sung, no instruments.] + And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer + He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air. + Christ came gently with a robe and crown + For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. + He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, + And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. + Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb? + + + + + The Drunkards in the Street + + + The Drunkards in the street are calling one another, + Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay,-- + Publicans and wantons-- + Calling, laughing, calling, + While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away. + + Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, + This comforter, this fitful wind divine? + I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre-- + I have no right to God, he is not mine. + + * * * * * + + Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell. + I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, + With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing + Until the grayness of my soul grows white. + + + + + The City That Will Not Repent + + + Climbing the heights of Berkeley + Nightly I watch the West. + There lies new San Francisco, + Sea-maid in purple dressed, + Wearing a dancer's girdle + All to inflame desire: + Scorning her days of sackcloth, + Scorning her cleansing fire. + + See, like a burning city + Sets now the red sun's dome. + See, mystic firebrands sparkle + There on each store and home. + See how the golden gateway + Burns with the day to be-- + Torch-bearing fiends of portent + Loom o'er the earth and sea. + + Not by the earthquake daunted + Nor by new fears made tame, + Painting her face and laughing + Plays she a new-found game. + Here on her half-cool cinders + 'Frisco abides in mirth, + Planning the wildest splendor + Ever upon the earth. + + Here on this crumbling rock-ledge + 'Frisco her all will stake, + Blowing her bubble-towers, + Swearing they will not break, + Rearing her Fair transcendent, + Singing with piercing art, + Calling to Ancient Asia, + Wooing young Europe's heart. + Here where her God has scourged her + Wantoning, singing sweet: + Waiting her mad bad lovers + Here by the judgment-seat! + + 'Frisco, God's doughty foeman, + Scorns and blasphemes him strong. + Tho' he again should smite her + She would not slack her song. + Nay, she would shriek and rally-- + 'Frisco would ten times rise! + Not till her last tower crumbles, + Not till her last rose dies, + Not till the coast sinks seaward, + Not till the cold tides beat + Over the high white Shasta, + 'Frisco will cry defeat. + + God loves this rebel city, + Loves foemen brisk and game, + Tho', just to please the angels, + He may send down his flame. + God loves the golden leopard + Tho' he may spoil her lair. + God smites, yet loves the lion. + God makes the panther fair. + + Dance then, wild guests of 'Frisco, + Yellow, bronze, white and red! + Dance by the golden gateway-- + Dance, tho' he smite you dead! + + + + + The Trap + + + She was taught desire in the street, + Not at the angels' feet. + By the good no word was said + Of the worth of the bridal bed. + The secret was learned from the vile, + Not from her mother's smile. + Home spoke not. And the girl + Was caught in the public whirl. + Do you say "She gave consent: + Life drunk, she was content + With beasts that her fire could please?" + But she did not choose disease + Of mind and nerves and breath. + She was trapped to a slow, foul death. + The door was watched so well, + That the steep dark stair to hell + Was the only escaping way . . . + "She gave consent," you say? + + Some think she was meek and good, + Only lost in the wood + Of youth, and deceived in man + When the hunger of sex began + That ties the husband and wife + To the end in a strong fond life. + Her captor, by chance was one + Of those whose passion was done, + A cold fierce worm of the sea + Enslaving for you and me. + The wages the poor must take + Have forced them to serve this snake. + Yea, half-paid girls must go + For bread to his pit below. + What hangman shall wait his host + Of butchers from coast to coast, + New York to the Golden Gate-- + The merger of death and fate, + Lust-kings with a careful plan + Clean-cut, American? + + In liberty's name we cry + For these women about to die. + + O mothers who failed to tell + The mazes of heaven and hell, + Who failed to advise, implore + Your daughters at Love's strange door, + What will you do this day? + Your dear ones are hidden away, + As good as chained to the bed, + Hid like the mad, or the dead:-- + The glories of endless years + Drowned in their harlot-tears: + The children they hoped to bear, + Grandchildren strong and fair, + The life for ages to be, + Cut off like a blasted tree, + Murdered in filth in a day, + Somehow, by the merchant gay! + + In liberty's name we cry + For these women about to die. + + What shall be said of a state + Where traps for the white brides wait? + Of sellers of drink who play + The game for the extra pay? + Of statesmen in league with all + Who hope for the girl-child's fall? + Of banks where hell's money is paid + And Pharisees all afraid + Of pandars that help them sin? + When will our wrath begin? + + + + + Where is David, the Next King of Israel? + + + Where is David? . . . O God's people, + Saul has passed, the good and great. + Mourn for Saul the first-anointed-- + Head and shoulders o'er the state. + + He was found among the Prophets: + Judge and monarch, merged in one. + But the wars of Saul are ended + And the works of Saul are done. + + Where is David, ruddy shepherd, + God's boy-king for Israel? + Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty, + Singing where still waters dwell? + + Prophet, find that destined minstrel + Wandering on the range to-day, + Driving sheep and crooning softly + Psalms that cannot pass away. + + "David waits," the prophet answers, + "In a black notorious den, + In a cave upon the border + With four hundred outlaw men. + + "He is fair, and loved of women, + Mighty-hearted, born to sing: + Thieving, weeping, erring, praying, + Radiant royal rebel-king. + + "He will come with harp and psaltry, + Quell his troop of convict swine, + Quell his mad-dog roaring rascals, + Witching them with words divine-- + + "They will ram the walls of Zion! + They will win us Salem hill, + All for David, Shepherd David-- + Singing like a mountain rill!" + + + + + On Reading Omar Khayyam + + [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 and flowers + And cup-bearers always fair!" + 'Twas a book of the snares of earth + Bordered in gold and blue, + And I read each line to the wind + And read to the roses too: + And they nodded their womanly heads + And told to the wall just why + For wine of the earth men bleed, + Kingdoms and empires die. + I envied the grape stained sage: + (The roses were praising him.) + The ways of the world seemed good + And the glory of heaven dim. + I envied the endless kings + Who found great pearls in the mire, + Who bought with the nation's life + The cup of delicious fire. + + But the wine of God came down, + And I drank it out of the air. + (Fair is the serpent-cup, + But the cup of God more fair.) + The wine of God came down + That makes no drinker to weep. + And I went back to battle again + Leaving the singer asleep. + + + + + The Beggar's Valentine + + + Kiss me and comfort my heart + Maiden honest and fine. + I am the pilgrim boy + Lame, but hunting the shrine; + + Fleeing away from the sweets, + Seeking the dust and rain, + Sworn to the staff and road, + Scorning pleasure and pain; + + Nevertheless my mouth + Would rest like a bird an hour + And find in your curls a nest + And find in your breast a bower: + + Nevertheless my eyes + Would lose themselves in your own, + Rivers that seek the sea, + Angels before the throne: + + Kiss me and comfort my heart, + For love can never be mine: + Passion, hunger and pain, + These are the only wine + + Of the pilgrim bound to the road. + He would rob no man of his own. + Your heart is another's I know, + Your honor is his alone. + + The feasts of a long drawn love, + The feasts of a wedded life, + The harvests of patient years, + And hearthstone and children and wife: + + These are your lords I know. + These can never be mine-- + This is the price I pay + For the foolish search for the shrine: + + This is the price I pay + For the joy of my midnight prayers, + Kneeling beneath the moon + With hills for my altar stairs; + + This is the price I pay + For the throb of the mystic wings, + When the dove of God comes down + And beats round my heart and sings; + + This is the price I pay + For the light I shall some day see + At the ends of the infinite earth + When truth shall come to me. + + And what if my body die + Before I meet the truth? + The road is dear, more dear + Than love or life or youth. + + The road, it is the road, + Mystical, endless, kind, + Mother of visions vast, + Mother of soul and mind; + + Mother of all of me + But the blood that cries for a mate-- + That cries for a farewell kiss + From the child of God at the gate. + + + + + Honor Among Scamps + + + 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. + We kept a silence Honor could not keep. + + Yet this late day we make a song to praise her. + We, codeless, will yet vindicate her code. + She who was mighty, walks with us, the beggars. + The merchants drive her out upon the road. + + She makes a throne of sod beside our campfire. + We give the maiden-queen our rags and tears. + A battered, rascal guard have rallied round her, + To keep her safe until the better years. + + + + + The Gamblers + + + 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, + Bread alone comes thro' the guarded door. + Cards are foolish in this jail, I think, + Yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink. + She, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid + Will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, + Pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, + Tho' he win a button or a stick, + Pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace-- + HIS the glory, MINE is the disgrace. + + Sweet, I'd rather lose than win despite + Love of hearty words and maids polite. + "Love's a gamble," say you. I deny. + Love's a gift. I love you till I die. + Gamblers fight like rats. I will not play. + All I ever had I gave away. + All I ever coveted was peace + Such as comes if we have jail release. + Cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, + Cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, + Cards dye not your hair to black more deep, + Cards make not the children cease to weep. + + Scorned, I sit with half shut eyes all day-- + Watch the cataract of sunshine play + Down the wall, and dance upon the floor. + Sun, come down and break the dungeon door! + Of such gold dust could I make a key,-- + Turn the bolt--how soon we would be free! + Over borders we would hurry on + Safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, + Wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, + Azure rivers flowing, flowing past. + GOD HAS GREAT ESTATES JUST PAST THE LINE, + GREEN FARMS FOR ALL, AND MEAT AND CORN AND WINE. + + + + + On the Road to Nowhere + + + 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 + Repentant, hurrying back! + Grown ashamed of nowhere, + Of rags endured for years, + Lust for velvet in their hearts, + Pierced with Mammon's spears, + All but a few fanatics + Give up their darling goal, + Seek to be as others are, + Stultify the soul. + Reapings now confront them, + Glut them, or destroy, + Curious seeds, grain or weeds + Sown with awful joy. + Hurried is their harvest, + They make soft peace with men. + Pilgrims pass. They care not, + Will not tramp again. + + O nowhere, golden nowhere! + Sages and fools go on + To your chaotic ocean, + To your tremendous dawn. + Far in your fair dream-haven, + Is nothing or is all . . . + They press on, singing, sowing + Wild deeds without recall! + + + + + 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 his fellow-men. + Therefore, to-day the singer + Turns beggar once again. + + + + + The Angel and the Clown + + + I saw wild domes and bowers + And smoking incense towers + And mad exotic flowers + In Illinois. + Where ragged ditches ran + Now springs of Heaven began + Celestial drink for man + In Illinois. + + There stood beside the town + Beneath its incense-crown + An angel and a clown + In Illinois. + He was as Clowns are: + She was snow and star + With eyes that looked afar + In Illinois. + + I asked, "How came this place + Of antique Asian grace + Amid our callow race + In Illinois?" + Said Clown and Angel fair: + "By laughter and by prayer, + By casting off all care + In Illinois." + + + + + Springfield Magical + + + In this, the City of my Discontent, + Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass, + "Romance, Romance--is here. No Hindu town + Is quite so strange. No Citadel of Brass + By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate; + No picture-palace in a picture-book + Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!" + + In this, the City of my Discontent, + Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep + Wild legends new and old burn round my bed + While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep. + Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts, + Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent; + And, for a day, fair Peace have given me + In this, the City of my Discontent! + + + + + Incense + + + 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, + Shrine after shrine grow gray beneath the sun. + + And mountain-boulders in our aged West + Shall guard the graves of hermits truth-endowed: + And there the scholar from the Chinese hills + Shall do deep honor, with his wise head bowed. + + And on our old, old plains some muddy stream, + Dark as the Ganges, shall, like that strange tide-- + (Whispering mystery to half the earth)-- + Gather the praying millions to its side, + + And flow past halls with statues in white stone + To saints unborn to-day, whose lives of grace + Shall make one shining, universal church + Where all Faiths kneel, as brothers, in one place. + + + + + The Wedding of the Rose and the Lotos + + + The wide Pacific waters + And the Atlantic meet. + With cries of joy they mingle, + In tides of love they greet. + Above the drowned ages + A wind of wooing blows:-- + The red rose woos the lotos, + The lotos woos the rose . . . + + The lotos conquered Egypt. + The rose was loved in Rome. + Great India crowned the lotos: + (Britain the rose's home). + Old China crowned the lotos, + They crowned it in Japan. + But Christendom adored the rose + Ere Christendom began . . . + + The lotos speaks of slumber: + The rose is as a dart. + The lotos is Nirvana: + The rose is Mary's heart. + The rose is deathless, restless, + The splendor of our pain: + The flush and fire of labor + That builds, not all in vain. . . . + + The genius of the lotos + Shall heal earth's too-much fret. + The rose, in blinding glory, + Shall waken Asia yet. + Hail to their loves, ye peoples! + Behold, a world-wind blows, + That aids the ivory lotos + To wed the red red rose! + + + + + King Arthur's Men Have Come Again + + [Written while a field-worker in the Anti-Saloon League of Illinois.] + + + King Arthur's men have come again. + They challenge everywhere + The foes of Christ's Eternal Church. + Her incense crowns the air. + The heathen knighthood cower and curse + To hear the bugles ring, + BUT SPEARS ARE SET, THE CHARGE IS ON, + WISE ARTHUR SHALL BE KING! + + And Cromwell's men have come again, + I meet them in the street. + Stern but in this--no way of thorns + Shall snare the children's feet. + The reveling foemen wreak but waste, + A sodden poisonous band. + FIERCE CROMWELL BUILDS THE FLOWER-BRIGHT TOWNS, + AND A MORE SUNLIT LAND! + + And Lincoln's men have come again. + Up from the South he flayed, + The grandsons of his foes arise + In his own cause arrayed. + They rise for freedom and clean laws + High laws, that shall endure. + OUR GOD ESTABLISHES HIS ARM + AND MAKES THE BATTLE SURE! + + + + + Foreign Missions in Battle Array + + + An endless line of splendor, + These troops with heaven for home, + With creeds they go from Scotland, + With incense go from Rome. + These, in the name of Jesus, + Against the dark gods stand, + They gird the earth with valor, + They heed their King's command. + + Onward the line advances, + Shaking the hills with power, + Slaying the hidden demons, + The lions that devour. + No bloodshed in the wrestling,-- + But souls new-born arise-- + The nations growing kinder, + The child-hearts growing wise. + + What is the final ending? + The issue, can we know? + Will Christ outlive Mohammed? + Will Kali's altar go? + This is our faith tremendous,-- + Our wild hope, who shall scorn,-- + That in the name of Jesus + The world shall be reborn! + + + + + Star of My Heart + + + 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. + Star from of old, the Magi-Kings are dead + And a foolish Saxon seeks the manger-bed. + O lead me to Jehovah's child + Across this dreamland lone and wild, + Then will I speak this prayer unsaid, + And kiss his little haloed head-- + "My star and I, we love thee, little child." + + Except the Christ be born again to-night + In dreams of all men, saints and sons of shame, + The world will never see his kingdom bright. + Stars of all hearts, lead onward thro' the night + Past death-black deserts, doubts without a name, + Past hills of pain and mountains of new sin + To that far sky where mystic births begin, + Where dreaming ears the angel-song shall win. + Our Christmas shall be rare at dawning there, + And each shall find his brother fair, + Like a little child within: + All hearts of the earth shall find new birth + And wake, no more to sin. + + + + + Look You, I'll Go Pray + + + Look you, I'll go pray, + My shame is crying, + My soul is gray and faint, + My faith is dying. + Look you, I'll go pray-- + "Sweet Mary, make me clean, + Thou rainstorm of the soul, + Thou wine from worlds unseen." + + + + + At Mass + + + No doubt to-morrow I will hide + My face from you, my King. + Let me rejoice this Sunday noon, + And kneel while gray priests sing. + + It is not wisdom to forget. + But since it is my fate + Fill thou my soul with hidden wine + To make this white hour great. + + My God, my God, this marvelous hour + I am your son I know. + Once in a thousand days your voice + Has laid temptation low. + + + + + Heart of God + + + O great heart of God, + Once vague and lost to me, + Why do I throb with your throb to-night, + In this land, eternity? + + O little heart of God, + Sweet intruding stranger, + You are laughing in my human breast, + A Christ-child in a manger. + + Heart, dear heart of God, + Beside you now I kneel, + Strong heart of faith. O heart not mine, + Where God has set His seal. + + Wild thundering heart of God + Out of my doubt I come, + And my foolish feet with prophets' feet, + March with the prophets' drum. + + + + + The Empty Boats + + + 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: + There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass. + Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride + And climb the glorious mysteries of Heaven's silent tide + In voyages that change the very metes and bounds of Fate-- + O empty boats, we all refuse, that by our windows wait! + + + + + With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses + + + 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 + And from your withering passion full release; + Release from that white hand that stabbed you so. + The road is calling. With the wind you go, + Forgetting her imperious disdain-- + Quenching all memory in the sun and rain." + + "Excellent Lord, I come. But first," I said, + "Grant that I bring her these twelve roses red. + Yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf mouth, + And then indeed I go in bitter drouth + To that far valley where your river flows + In Peace, that once I found in every rose." + + + + + St. Francis of Assisi + + + 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; + Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men, + Come, let us chant the canticle again + Of mother earth and the enduring sun. + God make each soul the lonely leper's slave; + God make us saints, and brave. + + + + + Buddha + + + Would that by Hindu magic we became + Dark monks of jeweled India long ago, + Sitting at Prince Siddartha's feet to know + The foolishness of gold and love and station, + The gospel of the Great Renunciation, + The ragged cloak, the staff, the rain and sun, + The beggar's life, with far Nirvana gleaming: + Lord, make us Buddhas, dreaming. + + + + + A Prayer to All the Dead Among Mine Own People + + + 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, + Fly by my path till you have made me whole! + + + + + To Reformers in Despair + + + 'Tis not too late to build our young land right, + Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan, + Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers, + Hearths that will recreate the breed called man. + + + + + Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket + + + 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, that am blind, cry out against my blindness. + + Man is a curious brute--he pets his fancies-- + Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury. + So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal, + Tho' all men plan to live in harmony. + + Come, let us vote against our human nature, + Crying to God in all the polling places + To heal our everlasting sinfulness + And make us sages with transfigured faces. + + + + + The following verses were written on the evening of March the first, + nineteen hundred and eleven, and printed next morning + in the Illinois State Register. + + They celebrate the arrival of the news that the United States Senate + had declared the election of William Lorimer good and valid, + by a vote of forty-six to forty. + + + To the United States Senate + + [Revelation 16: Verses 16-19] + + + And must the Senator from Illinois + Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes? + This brazen gutter idol, reared to power + Upon a leering pyramid of lies? + + And must the Senator from Illinois + Be the world's proverb of successful shame, + Dazzling all State house flies that steal and steal, + Who, when the sad State spares them, count it fame? + + If once or twice within his new won hall + His vote had counted for the broken men; + If in his early days he wrought some good-- + We might a great soul's sins forgive him then. + + But must the Senator from Illinois + Be vindicated by fat kings of gold? + And must he be belauded by the smirched, + The sleek, uncanny chiefs in lies grown old? + + Be warned, O wanton ones, who shielded him-- + Black wrath awaits. You all shall eat the dust. + You dare not say: "To-morrow will bring peace; + Let us make merry, and go forth in lust." + + What will you trading frogs do on a day + When Armageddon thunders thro' the land; + When each sad patriot rises, mad with shame, + His ballot or his musket in his hand? + + In the distracted states from which you came + The day is big with war hopes fierce and strange; + Our iron Chicagos and our grimy mines + Rumble with hate and love and solemn change. + + Too many weary men shed honest tears, + Ground by machines that give the Senate ease. + Too many little babes with bleeding hands + Have heaped the fruits of empire on your knees. + + And swine within the Senate in this day, + When all the smothering by-streets weep and wail; + When wisdom breaks the hearts of her best sons; + When kingly men, voting for truth, may fail:-- + + These are a portent and a call to arms. + Our protest turns into a battle cry: + "Our shame must end, our States be free and clean; + And in this war we choose to live and die." + + + [So far as the writer knows this is the first use + of the popular term Armageddon in present day politics.] + + + + + The Knight in Disguise + + [Concerning O. Henry (Sidney Porter)] + + "He could not forget that he was a Sidney." + + + Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this loud clown, + The darling of the glad and gaping town? + + This is that dubious hero of the press + Whose slangy tongue and insolent address + Were spiced to rouse on Sunday afternoon + The man with yellow journals round him strewn. + We laughed and dozed, then roused and read again, + And vowed O. Henry funniest of men. + He always worked a triple-hinged surprise + To end the scene and make one rub his eyes. + + He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer. + He comes with megaphone and specious cheer. + His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean, + Step from the pages of the magazine + With slapstick or sombrero or with cane: + The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain. + They over-act each part. But at the height + Of banter and of canter and delight + The masks fall off for one queer instant there + And show real faces: faces full of care + And desperate longing: love that's hot or cold; + And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold. + The masks go back. 'Tis one more joke. Laugh on! + The goodly grown-up company is gone. + + No doubt had he occasion to address + The brilliant court of purple-clad Queen Bess, + He would have wrought for them the best he knew + And led more loftily his actor-crew. + How coolly he misquoted. 'Twas his art-- + Slave-scholar, who misquoted--from the heart. + So when we slapped his back with friendly roar + Aesop awaited him without the door,-- + Aesop the Greek, who made dull masters laugh + With little tales of FOX and DOG and CALF. + And be it said, mid these his pranks so odd + With something nigh to chivalry he trod + And oft the drear and driven would defend-- + The little shopgirls' knight unto the end. + Yea, he had passed, ere we could understand + The blade of Sidney glimmered in his hand. + Yea, ere we knew, Sir Philip's sword was drawn + With valiant cut and thrust, and he was gone. + + + + + The Wizard in the Street + + [Concerning Edgar Allan Poe] + + + Who now will praise the Wizard in the street + With loyal songs, with humors grave and sweet-- + This Jingle-man, of strolling players born, + Whom holy folk have hurried by in scorn, + This threadbare jester, neither wise nor good, + With melancholy bells upon his hood? + + The hurrying great ones scorn his Raven's croak, + And well may mock his mystifying cloak + Inscribed with runes from tongues he has not read + To make the ignoramus turn his head. + The artificial glitter of his eyes + Has captured half-grown boys. They think him wise. + Some shallow player-folk esteem him deep, + Soothed by his steady wand's mesmeric sweep. + The little lacquered boxes in his hands + Somehow suggest old times and reverenced lands. + From them doll-monsters come, we know not how: + Puppets, with Cain's black rubric on the brow. + Some passing jugglers, smiling, now concede + That his best cabinet-work is made, indeed + By bleeding his right arm, day after day, + Triumphantly to seal and to inlay. + They praise his little act of shedding tears; + A trick, well learned, with patience, thro' the years. + + I love him in this blatant, well-fed place. + Of all the faces, his the only face + Beautiful, tho' painted for the stage, + Lit up with song, then torn with cold, small rage, + Shames that are living, loves and hopes long dead, + Consuming pride, and hunger, real, for bread. + + Here by the curb, ye Prophets thunder deep: + "What Nations sow, they must expect to reap," + Or haste to clothe the race with truth and power, + With hymns and shouts increasing every hour. + Useful are you. There stands the useless one + Who builds the Haunted Palace in the sun. + Good tailors, can you dress a doll for me + With silks that whisper of the sounding sea? + One moment, citizens,--the weary tramp + Unveileth Psyche with the agate lamp. + Which one of you can spread a spotted cloak + And raise an unaccounted incense smoke + Until within the twilight of the day + Stands dark Ligeia in her disarray, + Witchcraft and desperate passion in her breath + And battling will, that conquers even death? + + And now the evening goes. No man has thrown + The weary dog his well-earned crust or bone. + We grin and hie us home and go to sleep, + Or feast like kings till midnight, drinking deep. + He drank alone, for sorrow, and then slept, + And few there were that watched him, few that wept. + He found the gutter, lost to love and man. + Too slowly came the good Samaritan. + + + + + The Eagle that is Forgotten + + [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. + + "We have buried him now," thought your foes, and in secret rejoiced. + They made a brave show of their mourning, their hatred unvoiced. + They had snarled at you, barked at you, foamed at you day after day, + Now you were ended. They praised you, * * * and laid you away. + + The others that mourned you in silence and terror and truth, + The widow bereft of her crust, and the boy without youth, + The mocked and the scorned and the wounded, the lame and the poor + That should have remembered forever, * * * remember no more. + + Where are those lovers of yours, on what name do they call + The lost, that in armies wept over your funeral pall? + They call on the names of a hundred high-valiant ones, + A hundred white eagles have risen the sons of your sons, + The zeal in their wings is a zeal that your dreaming began + The valor that wore out your soul in the service of man. + + Sleep softly, * * * eagle forgotten, * * * under the stone, + Time has its way with you there and the clay has its own. + Sleep on, O brave hearted, O wise man, that kindled the flame-- + To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name, + To live in mankind, far, far more * * * than to live in a name. + + + + + Shakespeare + + + 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. + + + + + Michelangelo + + + Would I might wake in you the whirl-wind soul + Of Michelangelo, who hewed the stone + And Night and Day revealed, whose arm alone + Could draw the face of God, the titan high + Whose genius smote like lightning from the sky-- + And shall he mold like dead leaves in the grave? + Nay he is in us! Let us dare and dare. + God help us to be brave. + + + + + Titian + + + Would that such hills and cities round us sang, + Such vistas of the actual earth and man + As kindled Titian when his life began; + Would that this latter Greek could put his gold, + Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold + Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun, + Become our every-day, and we aspire + To colors fairer far, and glories higher. + + + + + Lincoln + + + Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, + That which is gendered in the wilderness + From lonely prairies and God's tenderness. + Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream, + Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream, + Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave, + Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire-- + Fire that freed the slave. + + + + + 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? + + + + + Sweet Briars of the Stairways + + + We are happy all the time + Even when we fight: + Sweet briars of the stairways, + Gay fairies of the grime; + WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT. + + "Our feet are in the gutters, + Our eyes are sore with dust, + But still our eyes are bright. + The wide street roars and mutters-- + We know it works because it must-- + WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT! + + "Dirt is everlasting.-- We never, never fear it. + Toil is never ceasing.-- We will play until we near it. + Tears are never ending.-- When once real tears have come; + + "When we see our people as they are-- + Our fathers--broken, dumb-- + Our mothers--broken, dumb-- + The weariest of women and of men; + Ah--then our eyes will lose their light-- + Then we will never play again-- + WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT." + + + + + Fantasies and Whims:-- + + + + The Fairy Bridal Hymn + + [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, + Whose feet are slow on the hills of life, + Whose round mouth rules by whispering. + + This is a song to the white-armed one + Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field, + Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold, + Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield. + + This is a song to the white-armed one + When the closing rose shall bind her fast, + And a song of the song their blood shall sing, + When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last. + + + + + The Potato's Dance + + + "Down cellar," said the cricket, + "I saw a ball last night + In honor of a lady + Whose wings were pearly-white. + The breath of bitter weather + Had smashed the cellar pane: + We entertained a drift of leaves + And then of snow and rain. + But we were dressed for winter, + And loved to hear it blow + In honor of the lady + Who makes potatoes grow-- + Our guest, the Irish lady, + The tiny Irish lady, + The fairy Irish lady + That makes potatoes grow. + + "Potatoes were the waiters, + Potatoes were the band, + Potatoes were the dancers + Kicking up the sand: + Their legs were old burnt matches, + Their arms were just the same, + They jigged and whirled and scrambled + In honor of the dame: + The noble Irish lady + Who makes potatoes dance, + The witty Irish lady, + The saucy Irish lady, + The laughing Irish lady + Who makes potatoes prance. + + "There was just one sweet potato. + He was golden-brown and slim: + The lady loved his figure. + She danced all night with him. + Alas, he wasn't Irish. + So when she flew away, + They threw him in the coal-bin + And there he is to-day, + Where they cannot hear his sighs-- + His weeping for the lady, + The beauteous Irish lady, + The radiant Irish lady + Who gives potatoes eyes." + + + + + How a Little Girl Sang + + + Ah, she was music in herself, + A symphony of joyousness. + She sang, she sang from finger tips, + From every tremble of her dress. + I saw sweet haunting harmony, + An ecstasy, an ecstasy, + In that strange curling of her lips, + That happy curling of her lips. + And quivering with melody + Those eyes I saw, that tossing head. + + And so I saw what music was, + Tho' still accursed with ears of lead. + + + + + Ghosts in Love + + + "Tell me, where do ghosts in love + Find their bridal veils?" + + "If you and I were ghosts in love + We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery, + Above the sea of Wails. + I'd trim your gray and streaming hair + With veils of Fantasy + From the tree of Memory. + 'Tis there the ghosts that fall in love + Find their bridal veils." + + + + + The Queen of Bubbles + + [Written for a picture] + + + The Youth speaks:-- + "Why do you seek the sun + In your bubble-crown ascending? + Your chariot will melt to mist. + Your crown will have an ending." + + The Goddess replies:-- + "Nay, sun is but a bubble, + Earth is a whiff of foam-- + To my caves on the coast of Thule + Each night I call them home. + Thence Faiths blow forth to angels + And loves blow forth to men-- + They break and turn to nothing + And I make them whole again. + On the crested waves of chaos + I ride them back reborn: + New stars I bring at evening + For those that burst at morn: + My soul is the wind of Thule + And evening is the sign-- + The sun is but a bubble, + A fragile child of mine." + + + + + The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning + + [A Poem for Aviators] + + + How the Wings Were Made + + From many morning-glories + That in an hour will fade, + From many pansy buds + Gathered in the shade, + From lily of the valley + And dandelion buds, + From fiery poppy-buds + Are the Wings of the Morning made. + + + The Indian Girl Who Made Them + + These, the Wings of the Morning, + An Indian Maiden wove, + Intertwining subtilely + Wands from a willow grove + Beside the Sangamon-- + Rude stream of Dreamland Town. + She bound them to my shoulders + With fingers golden-brown. + The wings were part of me; + The willow-wands were hot. + Pulses from my heart + Healed each bruise and spot + Of the morning-glory buds, + Beginning to unfold + Beneath her burning song of suns untold. + + + The Indian Girl Tells the Hero Where to Go to Get the Laughing Bell + + "To the farthest star of all, + Go, make a moment's raid. + To the west--escape the earth + Before your pennons fade! + West! west! o'ertake the night + That flees the morning sun. + There's a path between the stars-- + A black and silent one. + O tremble when you near + The smallest star that sings: + Only the farthest star + Is cool for willow wings. + + "There's a sky within the west-- + There's a sky beyond the skies + Where only one star shines-- + The Star of Laughing Bells-- + In Chaos-land it lies; + Cold as morning-dew, + A gray and tiny boat + Moored on Chaos-shore, + Where nothing else can float + But the Wings of the Morning strong + And the lilt of laughing song + From many a ruddy throat: + + "For the Tree of Laughing Bells + Grew from a bleeding seed + Planted mid enchantment + Played on a harp and reed: + Darkness was the harp-- + Chaos-wind the reed; + The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red-- + The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead. + Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree + Fell to-day at a blast from the reed. + Bring a fallen bell to me. + Go!" the maiden said. + "For the bell will quench our memory, + Our hope, + Our borrowed sorrow; + We will have no thirst for yesterday, + No thought for to-morrow." + + + The Journey Starts Swiftly + + A thousand times ten thousand times + More swift than the sun's swift light + Were the Morning Wings in their flight + On-- On-- + West of the Universe, + Thro' the West + To Chaos-night. + + + He Nears the Goal + + How the red bells rang + As I neared the Chaos-shore! + As I flew across to the end of the West + The young bells rang and rang + Above the Chaos roar, + And the Wings of the Morning + Beat in tune + And bore me like a bird along-- + And the nearing star turned to a moon-- + Gray moon, with a brow of red-- + Gray moon with a golden song. + Like a diver after pearls + I plunged to that stifling floor. + It was wide as a giant's wheat-field + An icy, wind-washed shore. + O laughing, proud, but trembling star! + O wind that wounded sore! + + + He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows + + On-- + Thro' the gleaming gray + I ran to the storm and clang-- + To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed-- + And scattered bells like autumn leaves. + How the red bells rang! + My breath within my breast + Was held like a diver's breath-- + The leaves were tangled locks of gray-- + The boughs of the tree were white and gray, + Shaped like scythes of Death. + The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway-- + Sway like scythes of Death. + But it was beautiful! + I knew that all was well. + A thousand bells from a thousand boughs + Each moment bloomed and fell. + On the hill of the wind-swept tree + There were no bells asleep; + They sang beneath my trailing wings + Like rivers sweet and steep. + Deep rock-clefts before my feet + Mighty chimes did keep + And little choirs did keep. + + + He Receives the Bells + + Honeyed, small and fair, + Like flowers, in flowery lands-- + Like little maidens' hands-- + Two bells fell in my hair, + Two bells caressed my hair. + I pressed them to my purple lips + In the strangling Chaos-air. + + + He Starts on the Return Journey + + On desperate wings and strong, + Two bells within my breast, + I breathed again, I breathed again-- + West of the Universe-- + West of the skies of the West. + Into the black toward home, + And never a star in sight, + By Faith that is blind I took my way + With my two bosomed blossoms gay + Till a speck in the East was the Milky way: + Till starlit was the night. + And the bells had quenched all memory-- + All hope-- + All borrowed sorrow: + I had no thirst for yesterday, + No thought for to-morrow. + Like hearts within my breast + The bells would throb to me + And drown the siren stars + That sang enticingly; + My heart became a bell-- + Three bells were in my breast, + Three hearts to comfort me. + We reached the daytime happily-- + We reached the earth with glee. + In an hour, in an hour it was done! + The wings in their morning flight + Were a thousand times ten thousand times + More swift than beams of light. + + + He Gives What He Won to the Indian Girl + + I panted in the grassy wood; + I kissed the Indian Maid + As she took my wings from me: + With all the grace I could + I gave two throbbing bells to her + From the foot of the Laughing Tree. + And one she pressed to her golden breast + And one, gave back to me. + + From Lilies of the valley-- + See them fade. + From poppy-blooms all frayed, + From dandelions gray with care, + From pansy-faces, worn and torn, + From morning-glories-- + See them fade-- + From all things fragile, faint and fair + Are the Wings of the Morning made! + + + + + Sweethearts of the Year + + + Sweetheart Spring + + Our Sweetheart, Spring, came softly, + Her gliding hands were fire, + Her lilac breath upon our cheeks + Consumed us with desire. + + By her our God began to build, + Began to sow and till. + He laid foundations in our loves + For every good and ill. + We asked Him not for blessing, + We asked Him not for pain-- + Still, to the just and unjust + He sent His fire and rain. + + + Sweetheart Summer + + We prayed not, yet she came to us, + The silken, shining one, + On Jacob's noble ladder + Descended from the sun. + She reached our town of Every Day, + Our dry and dusty sod-- + We prayed not, yet she brought to us + The misty wine of God. + + + Sweetheart Autumn + + The woods were black and crimson, + The frost-bit flowers were dead, + But Sweetheart Indian Summer came + With love-winds round her head. + While fruits God-given and splendid + Belonged to her domain: + Baskets of corn in perfect ear + And grapes with purple stain, + The treacherous winds persuaded her + Spring Love was in the wood + Altho' the end of love was hers-- + Fruition, Motherhood. + + + Sweetheart Winter + + We had done naught of service + To win our Maker's praise. + Yet Sweetheart Winter came to us + To gild our waning days. + Down Jacob's winding ladder + She came from Sunshine Town, + Bearing the sparkling mornings + And clouds of silver-brown; + Bearing the seeds of Springtime. + Upon her snowy seas + Bearing the fairy star-flowers + For baby Christmas trees. + + + + + The Sorceress! + + + I asked her, "Is Aladdin's lamp + Hidden anywhere?" + "Look into your heart," she said, + "Aladdin's lamp is there." + + She took my heart with glowing hands. + It burned to dust and air + And smoke and rolling thistledown + Blowing everywhere. + + "Follow the thistledown," she said, + "Till doomsday, if you dare, + Over the hills and far away. + Aladdin's lamp is there." + + + + + Caught in a Net + + + Upon her breast her hands and hair + Were tangled all together. + The moon of June forbade me not-- + The golden night time weather + In balmy sighs commanded me + To kiss them like a feather. + + Her looming hair, her burning hands, + Were tangled black and white. + My face I buried there. I pray-- + So far from her to-night-- + For grace, to dream I kiss her soul + Amid the black and white. + + + + + 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 cried-- + Wailed o'er my wounded knee, + Wept for my rock-torn side. + + Up from the South I trailed-- + Left regions fierce and fair! + Left all the jungle-trees, + Left the red tiger's lair. + Dream led, I scarce knew why, + Into your North I trod-- + Ne'er had I known the snow, + Or the frost-blasted sod. + + O how the flakes came down! + O how the fire burned high! + Strange thing to see he was, + Thro' his dry twigs would fly, + Creep there awhile and sleep-- + Then wake and bark for fight-- + Biting if I too near + Came to his eye so bright. + Then with a will you fed + Wood to his hungry tongue. + + Then he did leap and sing-- + Dancing the clouds among, + Turning the night to noon, + Stinging my eyes with light, + Making the snow retreat, + Making the cave-house bright. + + There were dry fagots piled, + Nuts and dry leaves and roots, + Stores there of furs and hides, + Sweet-barks and grains and fruits. + There wrapped in fur we lay, + Half-burned, half-frozen still-- + Ne'er will my soul forget + All the night's bitter chill. + We had not learned to speak, + I was to you a strange + Wolfling or wounded fawn, + Lost from his forest-range. + + Thirsting for bloody meat, + Out at the dawn we went. + Weighed with our prey at eve, + Home-came we all forespent. + Comrades and hunters tried + Ere we were maid and man-- + Not till the spring awoke + Laughter and speech began. + + Whining like forest dogs, + Rustling like budding trees, + Bubbling like thawing springs, + Humming like little bees, + Crooning like Maytime tides, + Chattering parrot words, + Crying the panther's cry, + Chirping like mating birds-- + Thus, thus, we learned to speak, + Who mid the snows were dumb, + Nor did we learn to kiss + Until the Spring had come. + + + + + Genesis + + + I was but a half-grown boy, + You were a girl-child slight. + Ah, how weary you were! + You had led in the bullock-fight . . . + We slew the bullock at length + With knives and maces of stone. + And so your feet were torn, + Your lean arms bruised to the bone. + + Perhaps 'twas the slain beast's blood + We drank, or a root we ate, + Or our reveling evening bath + In the fall by the garden gate, + But you turned to a witching thing, + Side-glancing, and frightened me; + You purred like a panther's cub, + You sighed like a shell from the sea. + + We knelt. I caressed your hair + By the light of the leaping fire: + Your fierce eyes blinked with smoke, + Pine-fumes, that enhanced desire. + I helped to unbraid your hair + In wonder and fear profound: + You were humming your hunting tune + As it swept to the grassy ground. + + Our comrades, the shaggy bear, + The tiger with velvet feet, + The lion, crept to the light + Whining for bullock meat. + We fed them and stroked their necks . . . + They took their way to the fen + Where they hunted or hid all night; + No enemies, they, of men. + + Evil had entered not + The cobra, since defiled. + He watched, when the beasts had gone + Our kissing and singing wild. + Beautiful friend he was, + Sage, not a tempter grim. + Many a year should pass + Ere Satan should enter him. + + He danced while the evening dove + And the nightingale kept in tune. + I sang of the angel sun: + You sang of the angel-moon: + We sang of the ANGEL-CHIEF + Who blew thro' the trees strange breath, + Who helped in the hunt all day + And granted the bullock's death. + + O Eve with the fire-lit breast + And child-face red and white! + I heaped the great logs high! + That was our bridal night. + + + + + Queen Mab in the Village + + + 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, + I killed grasshoppers too. + I threw big rocks at pigeons, + I plucked and tore apart + The weeping, wailing daisies, + And broke my lady's heart. + At length I grew to manhood, + I scarcely could believe + I ever loved the lady, + Or caused her court to grieve, + Until a dream came to me, + One bleak first night of Spring, + Ere tides of apple blossoms + Rolled in o'er everything, + While rain and sleet and snowbanks + Were still a-vexing men, + Ere robin and his comrades + Were nesting once again. + + I saw Mab's Book of Judgment-- + Its clasps were iron and stone, + Its leaves were mammoth ivory, + Its boards were mammoth bone,-- + Hid in her seaside mountains, + Forgotten or unkept, + Beneath its mighty covers + Her wrath against me slept. + And deeply I repented + Of brash and boyish crime, + Of murder of things lovely + Now and in olden time. + I cursed my vain ambition, + My would-be worldly days, + And craved the paths of wonder, + Of dewy dawns and fays. + I cried, "Our love was boundless, + Eternal as the sea, + O Queen, reverse the sentence, + Come back and master me!" + + The book was by the cliff-side + Upon its edge upright. + I laid me by it softly, + And wept throughout the night. + And there at dawn I saw it, + No book now, but a door, + Upon its panels written, + "Judgment is no more." + The bolt flew back with thunder, + I saw within that place + A mermaid wrapped in seaweed + With Mab's immortal face, + Yet grown now to a woman, + A woman to the knee. + She cried, she clasped me fondly, + We soon were in the sea. + + Ah, she was wise and subtle, + And gay and strong and sleek, + We chained the wicked sword-fish, + We played at hide and seek. + We floated on the water, + We heard the dawn-wind sing, + I made from ocean-wonders, + Her bridal wreath and ring. + All mortal girls were shadows, + All earth-life but a mist, + When deep beneath the maelstrom, + The mermaid's heart I kissed. + + I woke beside the church-door + Of our small inland town, + Bowing to a maiden + In a pansy-velvet gown, + Who had not heard of fairies, + Yet seemed of love to dream. + We planned an earthly cottage + Beside an earthly stream. + Our wedding long is over, + With toil the years fill up, + Yet in the evening silence, + We drink a deep-sea cup. + Nothing the fay remembers, + Yet when she turns to me, + We meet beneath the whirlpool, + We swim the golden sea. + + + + + The Dandelion + + + O dandelion, rich and haughty, + King of village flowers! + Each day is coronation time, + You have no humble hours. + I like to see you bring a troop + To beat the blue-grass spears, + To scorn the lawn-mower that would be + Like fate's triumphant shears. + Your yellow heads are cut away, + It seems your reign is o'er. + By noon you raise a sea of stars + More golden than before. + + + + + The Light o' the Moon + + [How different people and different animals look upon the moon: + showing that each creature finds in it his own mood and disposition] + + + 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. + + + What the Hyena Said + + The moon is but a golden skull, + She mounts the heavens now, + And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms + Are wreathed around her brow. + + The Moon-Worms are a doughty race: + They eat her gray and golden face. + Her eye-sockets dead, and molding head: + These caverns are their dwelling-place. + + The Moon-Worms, serpents of the skies, + From the great hollows of her eyes + Behold all souls, and they are wise: + With tiny, keen and icy eyes, + Behold how each man sins and dies. + + When Earth in gold-corruption lies + Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies + On cyclone wings will reach this place-- + Yea, rear their brood on earth's dead face. + + + What the Snow Man Said + + The Moon's a snowball. See the drifts + Of white that cross the sphere. + The Moon's a snowball, melted down + A dozen times a year. + + Yet rolled again in hot July + When all my days are done + And cool to greet the weary eye + After the scorching sun. + + The moon's a piece of winter fair + Renewed the year around, + Behold it, deathless and unstained, + Above the grimy ground! + + It rolls on high so brave and white + Where the clear air-rivers flow, + Proclaiming Christmas all the time + And the glory of the snow! + + + What the Scare-crow Said + + The dim-winged spirits of the night + Do fear and serve me well. + They creep from out the hedges of + The garden where I dwell. + + I wave my arms across the walk. + The troops obey the sign, + And bring me shimmering shadow-robes + And cups of cowslip-wine. + + Then dig a treasure called the moon, + A very precious thing, + And keep it in the air for me + Because I am a King. + + + 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. + + + 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 the bread of idleness, + Said Mister Moon to me. + + + 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. + + + + + A Net to Snare the Moonlight + + [What the Man of Faith said] + + + The dew, the rain and moonlight + All prove our Father's mind. + The dew, the rain and moonlight + Descend to bless mankind. + + Come, let us see that all men + Have land to catch the rain, + Have grass to snare the spheres of dew, + And fields spread for the grain. + + Yea, we would give to each poor man + Ripe wheat and poppies red,-- + A peaceful place at evening + With the stars just overhead: + + A net to snare the moonlight, + A sod spread to the sun, + A place of toil by daytime, + Of dreams when toil is done. + + + + + Beyond the Moon + + [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, + Always aspiring to be set in tune + With one who is invisible, inhuman. + + O laughing girl, cold TRUTH has stepped between, + Spoiling the fevers of your virgin face: + Making your shining eyes but lead and clay, + Mocking your brilliant brain and lady's grace. + + TRUTH haunted me the day I wooed and lost, + The day I wooed and won, or wooed in play: + Tho' you were Juliet or Rosalind, + Thus shall it be, forever and a day. + + I doubt my vows, tho' sworn on my own blood, + Tho' I draw toward you weeping, soul to soul, + I have a lonely goal beyond the moon; + Ay, beyond Heaven and Hell, I have a goal! + + + + + 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? + + + + + A Gospel of Beauty:-- + + + I recited these three poems more than any others + in my late mendicant preaching tour through the West. + Taken as a triad, they hold in solution my theory + of American civilization. + + + + The Proud Farmer + + [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, + And, when the traders followed him, he stood + Towering above their furtive souls and tame. + + That brow without a stain, that fearless eye + Oft left the passing stranger wondering + To find such knighthood in the sprawling land, + To see a democrat well-nigh a king. + + He lived with liberal hand, with guests from far, + With talk and joke and fellowship to spare,-- + Watching the wide world's life from sun to sun, + Lining his walls with books from everywhere. + He read by night, he built his world by day. + The farm and house of God to him were one. + For forty years he preached and plowed and wrought-- + A statesman in the fields, who bent to none. + + His plowmen-neighbors were as lords to him. + His was an ironside, democratic pride. + He served a rigid Christ, but served him well-- + And, for a lifetime, saved the countryside. + + Here lie the dead, who gave the church their best + Under his fiery preaching of the word. + They sleep with him beneath the ragged grass . . . + The village withers, by his voice unstirred. + + And tho' his tribe be scattered to the wind + From the Atlantic to the China sea, + Yet do they think of that bright lamp he burned + Of family worth and proud integrity. + + And many a sturdy grandchild hears his name + In reverence spoken, till he feels akin + To all the lion-eyed who built the world-- + And lion-dreams begin to burn within. + + + + + The Illinois Village + + + O you who lose the art of hope, + Whose temples seem to shrine a lie, + Whose sidewalks are but stones of fear, + Who weep that Liberty must die, + Turn to the little prairie towns, + Your higher hope shall yet begin. + On every side awaits you there + Some gate where glory enters in. + + Yet when I see the flocks of girls, + Watching the Sunday train go thro' + (As tho' the whole wide world went by) + With eyes that long to travel too, + I sigh, despite my soul made glad + By cloudy dresses and brown hair, + Sigh for the sweet life wrenched and torn + By thundering commerce, fierce and bare. + Nymphs of the wheat these girls should be: + Kings of the grove, their lovers strong. + Why are they not inspired, aflame? + This beauty calls for valiant song-- + For men to carve these fairy-forms + And faces in a fountain-frieze; + Dancers that own immortal hours; + Painters that work upon their knees; + Maids, lovers, friends, so deep in life, + So deep in love and poet's deeds, + The railroad is a thing disowned, + The city but a field of weeds. + + Who can pass a village church + By night in these clean prairie lands + Without a touch of Spirit-power? + So white and fixed and cool it stands-- + A thing from some strange fairy-town, + A pious amaranthine flower, + Unsullied by the winds, as pure + As jade or marble, wrought this hour:-- + Rural in form, foursquare and plain, + And yet our sister, the new moon, + Makes it a praying wizard's dream. + The trees that watch at dusty noon + Breaking its sharpest lines, veil not + The whiteness it reflects from God, + Flashing like Spring on many an eye, + Making clean flesh, that once was clod. + + Who can pass a district school + Without the hope that there may wait + Some baby-heart the books shall flame + With zeal to make his playmates great, + To make the whole wide village gleam + A strangely carved celestial gem, + Eternal in its beauty-light, + The Artist's town of Bethlehem! + + + + + On the Building of Springfield + + + 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 toward God. + Let Christ the beggar, teach divinity. + Let no man rule who holds his money dear. + Let this, our city, be our luxury. + + We should build parks that students from afar + Would choose to starve in, rather than go home, + Fair little squares, with Phidian ornament, + Food for the spirit, milk and honeycomb. + + Songs shall be sung by us in that good day, + Songs we have written, blood within the rhyme + Beating, as when Old England still was glad,-- + The purple, rich Elizabethan time. + + . . . . . + + Say, is my prophecy too fair and far? + I only know, unless her faith be high, + The soul of this, our Nineveh, is doomed, + Our little Babylon will surely die. + + Some city on the breast of Illinois + No wiser and no better at the start + By faith shall rise redeemed, by faith shall rise + Bearing the western glory in her heart. + + The genius of the Maple, Elm and Oak, + The secret hidden in each grain of corn, + The glory that the prairie angels sing + At night when sons of Life and Love are born, + + Born but to struggle, squalid and alone, + Broken and wandering in their early years. + When will they make our dusty streets their goal, + Within our attics hide their sacred tears? + + When will they start our vulgar blood athrill + With living language, words that set us free? + When will they make a path of beauty clear + Between our riches and our liberty? + + We must have many Lincoln-hearted men. + A city is not builded in a day. + And they must do their work, and come and go + While countless generations pass away. + + + + + + + [End of original text.] + + + +Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931): +(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel'). + +Vachel Lindsay, of Springfield, Illinois, is best known for his efforts +to restore the vocal tradition to poetry. He made a journey on foot +as far as New Mexico, taking along copies of a pamphlet, +"Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", for the purpose the title suggests. +He wrote of this journey in "Adventures while Preaching the Gospel of +Beauty". + +"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are his best-known poems, +and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William Booth +Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914). + +As a sidenote, he became close friends with the poet Sara Teasdale +(well worth reading in her own right--perhaps the better poet), +and his third volume of verse, "The Chinese Nightingale" (1917), +is dedicated to her. In turn, she wrote a memorial verse for him +after he committed suicide in 1931. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of General William Booth enters into +Heaven and other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH *** + +***** This file should be named 424.txt or 424.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/424/ + +Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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