All Poems

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The Congo: A Study of the Negro Race

© Vachel Lindsay

I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERYFat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,
Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,
Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,
A deep rolling bass.

The Sepulchre Of Memory

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

And where is truth? On tombs? for such to thee
Has been my heartand thy dead memory
Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year,
Unchangingly preserved and buried there.

What the Ghost of the Gambler Said

© Vachel Lindsay

WHERE now the huts are empty,
Where never a camp-fire glows,
In an abandoned caÃ±on,
A Gambler's Ghost arose.

Barrack-Room Ballads

© Rudyard Kipling

When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre,
He'd 'eard men sing by land an' sea;
An' what he thought 'e might require,
'E went an' took - the same as me!

Euclid

© Vachel Lindsay

OLD Euclid drew a circle
On a sand-beach long ago.
He bounded and enclosed it
With angles thus and so.

With Life and Death I walked when Love appeared,
And made them on each side a shadow seem.
Through wooded vales the land of dawn we neared,
Where down smooth rapids whirls the helmless dream
To fall on daylight; and night puts away
Her darker veil for grey.

This Section is a Christmas Tree

© Vachel Lindsay

THIS section is a Christmas tree:
Loaded with pretty toys for you.
Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks,
The popguns painted red and blue.

To Richard Wagner.

© Sidney Lanier

"I saw a sky of stars that rolled in grime.

All glory twinkled through some sweat of fight,

The Woodman And The Nightingale

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

A woodman whose rough heart was out of tune
(I think such hearts yet never came to good)
Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,

An Indian Summer Day on the Prarie

© Vachel Lindsay

THE sun is a huntress young,
The sun is a red, red joy,
The sun is an indian girl,
Of the tribe of the Illinois.

To J.R.

© Robert Fuller Murray

Last Sunday night I read the saddening story
Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine,
The `faith unfaithful' and the joyless glory
Of Lancelot, `groaning in remorseful pain.'

The Flower-Fed Buffaloes

© Vachel Lindsay

THE flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
In the days of long ago,
Ranged where the locomotives sing
And the prarie flowers lie low:

Death and Birth

© George MacDonald

Welcome, friend! Bring in your bricks.
Mortar there? No need to mix?
That is well. And picks and hammers?
Verily these are no shammers!-
There, my friend, build up that niche,
That one with the painting rich!

The Dandelion

© Vachel Lindsay

O DANDELION, rich and haughty,
King of village flowers!
Each day is coronation time,
You have no humble hours.

Spring And Winter

When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

On The Garden Wall

Oh, once I walked a garden
In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass.
And many orange-trees grew there
In sand as white as glass.

Factory Windows are Always Broken

FACTORY windows are always broken.
Somebody's always throwing bricks,
Somebody's always heaving cinders,
Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.

A Song to a Tree

Give me the dance of your boughs, O tree,
Whenever the wild wind blows;
And when the wind is gone, give me
Your beautiful repose.

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

IT is portentious, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house, pacing up and down.