Vachel Lindsay Poems

(To Eudora, after I had had certain dire adventures.)


When Dragon-fly would fix his wings,
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Down, down beneath the daisy beds,
O hear the cries of pain!
And moaning on the cinder-path
They're blind amid the rain.
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Twelve snails went walking after night.
They'd creep an inch or so,
Then stop and bug their eyes
And blow.
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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:—
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This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington's Birthday.
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Written to Miss Alice L. F. Fitzgerald, Edith Cavell memorial nurse, going to the front.


Your fine white hand is Heaven's gift
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The North Star whispers: "You are one
Of those whose course no chance can change.
You blunder, but are not undone,
Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.
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In fairyland the little boys
Would rather fight than eat their meals.
They like to chase a gauze-winged fly
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"Yes," said the sister with the little pinched face,
The busy little sister with the funny little tract: —
"This is the climax, the grand fifth act.
There rides the proud, at the finish of his race.
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SECTION ONE

"Give the engines room,
Give the engines room."
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