Chapter 3

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".