Vachel Lindsay

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, though 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.

Your dust will be upon the wind Within some certain years, Though you be sealed in lead to-day Amid the country’s tears. When this idyllic churchyard Becomes the heart of town, The place to build garage or inn, They’ll throw your tombstone down. Your name so dim, so long outworn, Your bones so near to earth, Your sturdy kindred dead and gone, How should men know your worth? So read upon the runic moon Man’s epitaph, deep-writ. It says the world is one great grave. For names it cares no whit. It tells the folk to live in peace, And still, in peace, to die. At least, so speaks the moon to me, The tombstone of the sky.

The Moon's a little prairie-dog. He shivers through the night. He sits upon his hill and cries For fear that I will bite. The Sun's a broncho.   He's afraid Like every other thing, And trembles morning, noon and night Lest I should spring and sting.

Two old crows sat on a fence rail. Two old crows sat on a fence rail, Thinking of effect and cause, Of weeds and flowers, And nature's laws. One of them muttered, one of them stuttered, One of them stuttered, one of them muttered. Each of them thought far more than he uttered. One crow asked the other crow a riddle. One crow asked the other crow a riddle: The muttering crow Asked the stuttering crow, “Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle? Why does a bee have a sword to his fiddle?” “Bee-cause,” said the other crow, “Bee-cause, B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause.” Just then a bee flew close to their rail:— “Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz             zzzzzzzzz             zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZ.” And those two black crows Turned pale, And away those crows did sail. Why? B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause. B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B-cause. “Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz             zzzzzzzzz             zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZZ.”

(To a Man who maintained that the Mausoleum is the Stateliest Possible Manner of Interment) I would be one with the dark, dark earth:— Follow the plough with a yokel tread. I would be part of the Indian corn, Walking the rows with the plumes o'erhead. I would be one with the lavish earth, Eating the bee-stung apples red: Walking where lambs walk on the hills; By oak-grove paths to the pools be led. I would be one with the dark-bright night When sparkling skies and the lightning wed— Walking on with the vicious wind By roads whence even the dogs have fled. I would be one with the sacred earth On to the end, till I sleep with the dead. Terror shall put no spears through me. Peace shall jewel my shroud instead. I shall be one with all pit-black things Finding their lowering threat unsaid: Stars for my pillow there in the gloom,— Oak-roots arching about my head! Stars, like daisies, shall rise through the earth, Acorns fall round my breast that bled. Children shall weave there a flowery chain, Squirrels on acorn-hearts be fed:— Fruit of the traveller-heart of me, Fruit of my harvest-songs long sped: Sweet with the life of my sunburned days When the sheaves were ripe, and the apples red.

Once I loved a spider When I was born a fly, A velvet-footed spider With a gown of rainbow-dye. She ate my wings and gloated. She bound me with a hair. She drove me to her parlor Above her winding stair. To educate young spiders She took me all apart. My ghost came back to haunt her. I saw her eat my heart.

There was a little turtle. He lived in a box. He swam in a puddle. He climbed on the rocks. He snapped at a mosquito. He snapped at a flea. He snapped at a minnow. And he snapped at me. He caught the mosquito. He caught the flea. He caught the minnow. But he didn't catch me.

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.

Once, in the city of Kalamazoo, The gods went walking, two and two, With the friendly phoenix, the stars of Orion, The speaking pony and singing lion. For in Kalamazoo in a cottage apart Lived the girl with the innocent heart. Thenceforth the city of Kalamazoo Was the envied, intimate chum of the sun. He rose from a cave by the principal street. The lions sang, the dawn-horns blew, And the ponies danced on silver feet. He hurled his clouds of love around; Deathless colors of his old heart Draped the houses and dyed the ground. O shrine of the wide young Yankee land, Incense city of Kalamazoo, That held, in the midnight, the priceless sun As a jeweller holds an opal in hand! From the awkward city of Oshkosh came Love the bully no whip shall tame, Bringing his gang of sinners bold. And I was the least of his Oshkosh men; But none were reticent, none were old. And we joined the singing phoenix then, And shook the lilies of Kalamazoo All for one hidden butterfly. Bulls of glory, in cars of war We charged the boulevards, proud to die For her ribbon sailing there on high. Our blood set gutters all aflame, Where the sun slept without any heat— Cold rock till he must rise again. She made great poets of wolf-eyed men— The dear queen-bee of Kalamazoo, With her crystal wings, and her honey heart. We fought for her favors a year and a day (Oh, the bones of the dead, the Oshkosh dead, That were scattered along her pathway red!) And then, in her harum-scarum way, She left with a passing traveller-man— With a singing Irishman Went to Japan. Why do the lean hyenas glare Where the glory of Artemis had begun— Of Atalanta, Joan of Arc, Cinderella, Becky Thatcher, And Orphant Annie, all in one? Who burned this city of Kalamazoo Till nothing was left but a ribbon or two— One scorched phoenix that mourned in the dew, Acres of ashes, a junk-man's cart, A torn-up letter, a dancing shoe, (And the bones of the dead, the dead)? Who burned this city of Kalamazoo— Love-town, Troy-town Kalamazoo? A harum-scarum innocent heart.

I The angels guide him now, And watch his curly head, And lead him in their games, The little boy we led. II He cannot come to harm, He knows more than we know, His light is brighter far Than daytime here below. III His path leads on and on, Through pleasant lawns and flowers, His brown eyes open wide At grass more green than ours. IV With playmates like himself, The shining boy will sing, Exploring wondrous woods, Sweet with eternal spring. V Yet, he is lost to us, Far is his path of gold, Far does the city seem, Lonely our hearts and old.