Chapter 5

The moon is a bird's nest in its branches, The moon is hung in its topmost spaces. And there, to-night, two doves play house While lovers watch with uplifted faces. Two doves go home To their nest, the moon. It is woven of twigs of broken light, With threads of scarlet and threads of gray And a lining of down for silk delight. To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves, Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree;-- And one is the kiss I took from you, And one is the kiss you gave to me.

XII. The Scissors-grinder

(What the Tramp Said)

The old man had his box and wheel For grinding knives and shears. No doubt his bell in village streets Was joy to children's ears. And I bethought me of my youth When such men came around, And times I asked them in, quite sure The scissors should be ground. The old man turned and spoke to me, His face at last in view. And then I thought those curious eyes Were eyes that once I knew.

"The moon is but an emery-wheel To whet the sword of God," He said. "And here beside my fire I stretch upon the sod Each night, and dream, and watch the stars And watch the ghost-clouds go. And see that sword of God in Heaven A-waving to and fro. I see that sword each century, friend. It means the world-war comes With all its bloody, wicked chiefs And hate-inflaming drums. Men talk of peace, but I have seen That emery-wheel turn round. The voice of Abel cries again To God from out the ground. The ditches must flow red, the plague Go stark and screaming by Each time that sword of God takes edge Within the midnight sky. And those that scorned their brothers here And sowed a wind of shame Will reap the whirlwind as of old And face relentless flame."

And thus the scissors-grinder spoke, His face at last in view. _And there beside the railroad bridge I saw the wandering Jew_.

XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

My lady in her white silk shawl Is like a lily dim, Within the twilight of the room Enthroned and kind and prim.

My lady! Pale gold is her hair. Until she smiles her face Is pale with far Hellenic moods, With thoughts that find no place

In our harsh village of the West Wherein she lives of late, She's distant as far-hidden stars, And cold--(almost!)--as fate.

But when she smiles she's here again Rosy with comrade-cheer, A Puritan Bacchante made To laugh around the year.

The merry gentle moon herself, Heart-stirring too, like her, Wakening wild and innocent love In every worshipper.

XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn

"Bring me soft song," said Aladdin. "This tailor-shop sings not at all. Chant me a word of the twilight, Of roses that mourn in the fall. Bring me a song like hashish That will comfort the stale and the sad, For I would be mending my spirit, Forgetting these days that are bad, Forgetting companions too shallow, Their quarrels and arguments thin, Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:"-- "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

"Bring me old wines," said Aladdin. "I have been a starved pauper too long. Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell, Serve them with fruit and with song:-- Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans Digged from beneath the black seas:-- New-gathered dew from the heavens Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees, Cups from the angels' pale tables That will make me both handsome and wise, For I have beheld her, the princess, Firelight and starlight her eyes. Pauper I am, I would woo her. And--let me drink wine, to begin, Though the Koran expressly forbids it." "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

"Plan me a dome," said Aladdin, "That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON, When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains, Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon." "Build me a dome," said Aladdin, "That shall cause all young lovers to sigh, The fullness of life and of beauty, Peace beyond peace to the eye-- A palace of foam and of opal, Pure moonlight without and within, Where I may enthrone my sweet lady." "I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

XV. The Strength of the Lonely

(What the Mendicant Said)

The moon's a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky. His strength is that of heaven-vowed men Who all life's flames defy.

They turn to stars or shadows, They go like snow or dew-- Leaving behind no sorrow-- Only the arching blue.

Fifth Section

War. September 1, 1914 Intended to be Read Aloud

I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous, 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,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us:--as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come;--the shining hope of Europe free: The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?

II. A Curse for Kings

A curse upon each king who leads his state, No matter what his plea, to this foul game, And may it end his wicked dynasty, And may he die in exile and black shame.

If there is vengeance in the Heaven of Heavens, What punishment could Heaven devise for these Who fill the rivers of the world with dead, And turn their murderers loose on all the seas!

Put back the clock of time a thousand years, And make our Europe, once the world's proud Queen, A shrieking strumpet, furious fratricide, Eater of entrails, wallowing obscene

In pits where millions foam and rave and bark, Mad dogs and idiots, thrice drunk with strife; While Science towers above;--a witch, red-winged: Science we looked to for the light of life.

Curse me the men who make and sell iron ships, Who walk the floor in thought, that they may find Each powder prompt, each steel with fearful edge, Each deadliest device against mankind.

Curse me the sleek lords with their plumes and spurs, May Heaven give their land to peasant spades, Give them the brand of Cain, for their pride's sake, And felon's stripes for medals and for braids.

Curse me the fiddling, twiddling diplomats, Haggling here, plotting and hatching there, Who make the kind world but their game of cards, Till millions die at turning of a hair.

What punishment will Heaven devise for these Who win by others' sweat and hardihood, Who make men into stinking vultures' meat, Saying to evil still "Be thou my good"?

Ah, he who starts a million souls toward death Should burn in utmost hell a million years! --Mothers of men go on the destined wrack To give them life, with anguish and with tears:--

Are all those childbed sorrows sneered away? Yea, fools laugh at the humble christenings, And cradle-joys are mocked of the fat lords: These mothers' sons made dead men for the Kings!

All in the name of this or that grim flag, No angel-flags in all the rag-array-- Banners the demons love, and all Hell sings And plays wild harps. Those flags march forth to-day!

III. Who Knows?

They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows? They say one king is doddering and grey. They say one king is slack and sick of mind, A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.

Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place? Their mad-house, till it turns the wide world's bane? Their place of maudlin, slavering conference Till every far-off farmstead goes insane?

IV. To Buddha

Awake again in Asia, Lord of Peace, Awake and preach, for her far swordsmen rise. And would they sheathe the sword before you, friend, Or scorn your way, while looking in your eyes?

Good comrade and philosopher and prince, Thoughtful and thoroughbred and strong and kind, Dare they to move against your pride benign, Lord of the Law, high chieftain of the mind?

*****

But what can Europe say, when in your name The throats are cut, the lotus-ponds turn red? And what can Europe say, when with a laugh Old Asia heaps her hecatombs of dead?

V. The Unpardonable Sin

This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:-- To speak of bloody power as right divine, And call on God to guard each vile chief's house, And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:--

To go forth killing in White Mercy's name, Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains.

In any Church's name, to sack fair towns, And turn each home into a screaming sty, To make the little children fugitive, And have their mothers for a quick death cry,--

This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: This is the sin no purging can atone:-- To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:-- To set the face, and make the heart a stone.

VI. Above the Battle's Front

St. Francis, Buddha, Tolstoi, and St. John-- Friends, if you four, as pilgrims, hand in hand, Returned, the hate of earth once more to dare, And walked upon the water and the land,

If you, with words celestial, stopped these kings For sober conclave, ere their battle great, Would they for one deep instant then discern Their crime, their heart-rot, and their fiend's estate?

If you should float above the battle's front, Pillars of cloud, of fire that does not slay, Bearing a fifth within your regal train, The Son of David in his strange array--

If, in his majesty, he towered toward Heaven, Would they have hearts to see or understand? ... Nay, for he hovers there to-night we know, Thorn-crowned above the water and the land.

VII. Epilogue. Under the Blessing of Your Psyche Wings

Though I have found you like a snow-drop pale, On sunny days have found you weak and still, Though I have often held your girlish head Drooped on my shoulder, faint from little ill:--

Under the blessing of your Psyche-wings I hide to-night like one small broken bird, So soothed I half-forget the world gone mad:-- And all the winds of war are now unheard.

My heaven-doubting pennons feel your hands With touch most delicate so circling round, That for an hour I dream that God is good. And in your shadow, Mercy's ways abound.

I thought myself the guard of your frail state, And yet I come to-night a helpless guest, Hiding beneath your giant Psyche-wings, Against the pallor of your wondrous breast.

[End of original text.]

Biographical Note:

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (1879-1931):

(Vachel is pronounced Vay-chul, that is, it rhymes with 'Rachel').

"The Eagle that is Forgotten" and "The Congo" are two of his best-known poems, and appear in his first two volumes of verse, "General William Booth Enters into Heaven" (1913) and "The Congo" (1914).

Lindsay himself considered his drawings and his prose writings to be as important as his verse, all coming together to form a whole. His "Collected Poems" (1925) gives a good selection.

*****

From an anthology of verse by Jessie B. Rittenhouse (1913, 1917):

"Lindsay, Vachel. Born November 10, 1879. Educated at Hiram College, Ohio. He took up the study of art and studied at the Art Institute, Chicago, 1900-03 and at the New York School of Art, 1904-05. For a time after his technical study, he lectured upon art in its practical relation to the community, and returning to his home in Springfield, Illinois, issued what one might term his manifesto in the shape of "The Village Magazine", divided about equally between prose articles, pertaining to beautifying his native city, and poems, illustrated by his own drawings. Soon after this, Mr. Lindsay, taking as scrip for the journey, "Rhymes to be Traded for Bread", made a pilgrimage on foot through several Western States going as far afield as New Mexico. The story of this journey is given in his volume, "Adventures while Preaching the Gospel of Beauty". Mr. Lindsay first attracted attention in poetry by "General William Booth Enters into Heaven", a poem which became the title of his first volume, in 1913. His second volume was "The Congo", published in 1914. He is attempting to restore to poetry its early appeal as a spoken art, and his later work differs greatly from the selections contained in this anthology."

End of Project Gutenberg's The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay