Part 1

GOING-TO-THE-SUN

GOING-TO-THE-SUN

BY VACHEL LINDSAY

AUTHOR OF “GENERAL WILLIAM BOOTH ENTERS HEAVEN,” “THE CONGO,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY NEW YORK :: LONDON :: MCMXXIII

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

GOING-TO-THE-SUN

The mountain peak called “Going-To-The-Sun,” In Glacier Park, Is the most gorgeous one, And when the sun comes down to it, it glows With emerald and rose.

THE MYSTIC ROOSTER OF THE MONTANA SUNRISE

On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw the rooster that no storm can tame, The center of the sun was but his eye, His comb was but the sun rays and the flame. There in the Glacier Park, above white glaciers, There, above Montana and the west, He crowed and called his boast around the world, Emotion shook his red embroidered vest. There is humor in the very biggest rooster, But even more magnificence than fun. I laugh because he acted like a rooster, I am solemn, for he was the biggest one. I like a rooster or a turkey gobbler, I like their forthright impudence at times. They are neither larks, nor trilling nightingales, And yet they always sing in splendid rhymes. When I heard the vast bird of the sunrise crying, The world held not one inch of silly prose. Any rooster is a flowerlike fowl, And this one was a crimson Yankee rose.

THE BIRD CALLED “CURIOSITY”

Round the mountain peak called “Going-To-The-Sun,” In Glacier Park, a steep and soaring one, Circled a curious bird with pointed nose Who led us on to every cave, and rose And swept through every cloud, then brought us berries, And all the acid gifts the mountain carries, And let us guess which ones were good to eat. And even when we slept his sharp wings beat The weary fire, or shook the tree-top cones, Or rattled dead twigs like a fairy’s bones. The vulgar bird, “Curiosity”! When we Were tired, and lean, and shaking at the knee, We put this bird in harness. He was strong As any ostrich, pulled our packs along, Helped us up over the next annoying wall, And dragged us to the chalet, and the tourists’ resting hall.

And when once more we were young, well-fed men, He beat the door to call us forth again.

THE THISTLEVINE

The Thistlevine saw the butterflies Disappear through the morning skies.

AND THEY LAUGHED

By the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” A dizzy mountain, where paths twist round and round And nothing in sober order can be found-- I asked the poppies: “What fairies do you see?” And they shook their long stems, and they laughed at me.

THE FAIRY CIRCUS

A fairy ran a circus With a pigeon puffed and proud, A humble bullfrog And a rather solid cloud.

She wore her underwear, The rest wore what they had, The frog wore a blue coat Just like his dad.

The pigeon wore his feathers And spread himself--O My! The cloud wore sunshine He gathered in the sky.

THE BATTLE-AX OF THE SUN

On the mountain peak I reached the drift And I took it for a Christmas gift, And I made ten soldiers out of snow.

But the battle-ax of my fairy foe Cut to the ground my men of snow.

And who was he, my fairy foe, Who brought my snowy army low?

The mountain sun was my fairy foe.

THE CHRISTMAS TREES

On the high slope of Going-To-The-Sun Is a stormy Christmas, all year round, And snow-filled Christmas trees abound.

THE PHEASANT SPEAKS OF HIS BIRTHDAYS

Up the good slope of Going-To-The-Sun, I saw the Pheasant-Of-The-Sunrise fly. Jewels in his feathers, mixed with dew. Dew and jewels made his jeweled eye. He paused to make a sonnet, which he sang, Though nowhere else are pheasants sonneteers. He emphasized with swooping and with skipping, With winkings and intoxicated leers. And how the bushes twinkled as he caroled:

“Each morning is another birthday, friend. And I have lived so many happy birthdays! There are gifts with all the suns that here ascend! Each bush, you see, has an unextinguished candle And angel-food, and icing, and candy flowers, And this long vine that climbs from earth to heaven Gives me thoughts, and most erratic powers. I eat its scarlet berries and its frosting. If I choose, it is my present every day. Then I can fly straight up to heaven’s doorstep Following the green line all the way.

“And then I tumble like a limber leaf To my nest here, and another year is done Or another thousand years, what does it matter On the mountain peak called ‘Going-To-The-Sun’?”

THE MYSTIC UNICORN OF THE MONTANA SUNSET

On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw the Unicorn-No-Storm-Can-Tame. The center of the sun was but his eye, His mane was but the sun rays and the flame. There in that Glacier Park, above green pastures, There above Stephen’s camp fire in the rocks, He foamed and pawed and whinnied round the world, His feathered sides and plumes and bristling locks Seemed but the banners of a great announcement That unicorns were spry as heretofore, That not a camp fire of the world was dead, That dragons lived in them, and thousands more Camp-born, were clawing at the clouds of Asia, Were rising with to-morrow’s dawn for men, Camp-fire dragons, with the ancient unicorn Bringing the Rosicrucian days again. Any unicorn can drive away Any thoughts the grown-up race has spoiled. When I heard the Unicorn-of-Sunset ramping New fancies in my veins bubbled and boiled.

Any unicorn is worth his oats, And so we fed him bacon, and we made An extra cup of tea, which he drank. Then he curled up coltwise, and in slumber sank. Dragons sprang up, next day, where he had stayed. They were in Fujiyama silks arrayed, Or spoke of Everest to Stephen. Then began Discussing the strange peak in Darien That poets climb to see the Pacific well. How Stephen climbed it later, I will let him tell. Following the Unicorn-No-Storm-Can-Tame Alone, in tropic woods, is a great game.

JOHNNY APPLESEED STILL FURTHER WEST

On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw old Johnny Appleseed once more. He ate an apple, threw away the core. Then turned and smiled and slackly watched it fall Into a crevice of the mountain wall. In an instant there was an apple tree, The roots split up the rocks beneath our feet, And apples rolled down the green mountainside And fairies popped from them, flying and free!

And Fairies Came from them.

THE APPLE-BARREL OF JOHNNY APPLESEED

On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I saw gray Johnny Appleseed at prayer Just as the sunset made the old earth fair. Then darkness came; in an instant, like great smoke, The sun fell down as though its great hoops broke And dark rich apples, poured from the dim flame Where the sun set, came rolling toward the peak, A storm of fruit, a mighty cider-reek, The perfume of the orchards of the world, From apple-shadows: red and russet domes That turned to clouds of glory and strange homes Above the mountain tops for cloud-born souls:-- Reproofs for men who build the world like moles, Models for men, if they would build the world As Johnny Appleseed would have it done-- Praying, and reading the books of Swedenborg On the mountain top called “Going-To-The-Sun.”

THE COMET OF GOING-TO-THE-SUN

On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” A comet stopped to drink from a cool spring And like a spirit-harp began to sing To us, then hurried on to reach the sun. We called him “Homer’s soul,” and “Milton’s wing.” The harp-sound stayed, though he went up and on. It turned to thunder, when he had quite gone-- And yet was like a soft voice of the sea, And every whispering root and every blade of grass And every tree In the whole world, and brought thoughts of old songs That blind men sang ten thousand years ago, And all the springtime hearts of every nation know.

THE BOAT WITH THE KITE STRING AND THE CELESTIAL EYES

On the mountain peak, called “Going-To-The-Sun,” I sat alone; while Stephen explored higher, I dragged in sticks and logs and kept our fire.

On soft-winged sails of meditation My boat of spiral shells and flowers, And fluffy clouds and twinkling hours, My thought-boat went with the sun all day Over the glaciers, far away. I sat alone, but the chipmunks knew My boat was high, and plain to view.

I flew my ship like a kite. The thread Was a cobweb silk, fine and thin, That came from out the palm of my hand. There I saw the ship begin. From the gypsy’s life line thence it came

A feather of mist that flew to the dawn, And I felt the spool in my wrist unwind, And I saw the feather on heaven’s lawn, Now a glimmering ship like a lark awake. And the kite string sang, but did not break.

It stretched like the string of a violin Played by invisible tides and waves. It sang of Springfield yet to be. It sang of the dead hours in their graves.

And of the United States to be, And of all the map stretched out below. And my kite had pansy eyes in its wings, And I saw the states in their bloom and glow Yet a child’s block-map, and nothing more, Flat patterns on a playroom floor.

Texas the fort, by the river to the south, Michigan a pheasant with a leaf in its mouth, Illinois an ear of corn, in the shock, Maine a moose-horn, gray as a rock. California a whale, in gilded mail, Montana, a ranch of alfalfa and clover,