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Best Famous Vachel Lindsay Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Vachel Lindsay poems. This is a select list of the best famous Vachel Lindsay poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Vachel Lindsay poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Vachel Lindsay poems.

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by Allen Ginsberg |

Feb. 29 1958

 Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot
welcoming me to the land of dream
Sofas couches fog in England
Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows
curtains on his windows, fog seeping in
the chimney but a nice warm house 
and an incredibly sweet hooknosed
Eliot he loved me, put me up,
gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious
asked my opinion on Mayakovsky
I read him Corso Creeley Kerouac
advised Burroughs Olson Huncke
the bearded lady in the Zoo, the
intelligent puma in Mexico City
6 chorus boys from Zanzibar
who chanted in wornout polygot
Swahili, and the rippling rythyms
of Ma Rainey and Vachel Lindsay.
On the Isle of the Queen
we had a long evening's conversation
Then he tucked me in my long 
red underwear under a silken 
blanket by the fire on the sofa
gave me English Hottie
and went off sadly to his bed,
Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad
to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself.
Is he that good and kind? Am I that great?
What's my motive dreaming his 
manna? What English Department
would that impress? What failure
to be perfect prophet's made up here?
I dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot
wanting to be a historical poet
and share in his finance of Imagery-
overambitious dream of eccentric boy.
God forbid my evil dreams come true.
Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg.
T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.


by Vachel Lindsay |

Drying Their Wings

 What the Carpenter Said

THE moon's a cottage with a door. 
Some folks can see it plain. 
Look, you may catch a glint of light, 
A sparkle through the pane, 
Showing the place is brighter still 
Within, though bright without. 
There, at a cosy open fire 
Strange babes are grouped about. 
The children of the wind and tide-- 
The urchins of the sky, 
Drying their wings from storms and things 
So they again can fly.


by Vachel Lindsay |

An Indian Summer Day on the Prarie

 (IN THE BEGINNING)

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.

(MID-MORNING)

The sun is a smouldering fire, 
That creeps through the high gray plain, 
And leaves not a bush of cloud 
To blossom with flowers of rain.

(NOON)

The sun is a wounded deer, 
That treads pale grass in the skies, 
Shaking his golden horns, 
Flashing his baleful eyes.

(SUNSET)

The sun is an eagle old, 
There in the windless west. 
Atop of the spirit-cliffs 
He builds him a crimson nest.


by Vachel Lindsay |

To Gloriana

 GIRL with the burning golden eyes, 
And red-bird song, and snowy throat: 
I bring you gold and silver moons, 
And diamond stars, and mists that float. 
I bring you moons and snowy clouds, 
I bring you prarie skies to-night 
To feebly praise your golden eyes 
And red-bird song, and throat so white.


by Vachel Lindsay |

Mark Twain and Joan of Arc

 When Yankee soldiers reach the barricade
Then Joan of Arc gives each the accolade.

For she is there in armor clad, today,
All the young poets of the wide world say.

Which of our freemen did she greet the first,
Seeing him come against the fires accurst?

Mark Twain, our Chief, with neither smile nor jest,
Leading to war our youngest and our best.

The Yankee to King Arthur's court returns.
The sacred flag of Joan above him burns.

For she has called his soul from out the tomb.
And where she stands, there he will stand till doom.

But I, I can but mourn, and mourn again
At bloodshed caused by angels, saints, and men.


by Vachel Lindsay |

St. Francis of Assisi

 Would I might wake St. Francis in you all, 
Brother of birds and trees, God's Troubadour, 
Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor; 
Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men, 
Come, let us chant the canticle again 
Of mother earth and the enduring sun. 
God make each soul the lonely leper's slave; 
God make us saints, and brave.


by Vachel Lindsay |

By the Spring at Sunset

 Sometimes we remember kisses,
Remember the dear heart-leap when they came:
Not always, but sometimes we remember
The kindness, the dumbness, the good flame
Of laughter and farewell.
Beside the road
Afar from those who said "Good-by" I write,
Far from my city task, my lawful load.

Sun in my face, wind beside my shoulder,
Streaming clouds, banners of new-born night
Enchant me now. The splendors growing bolder
Make bold my soul for some new wise delight.

I write the day's event, and quench my drouth,
Pausing beside the spring with happy mind.
And now I feel those kisses on my mouth,
Hers most of all, one little friend most kind.


by Vachel Lindsay |

The Moons the North Winds Cooky

 The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy 
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!


by Vachel Lindsay |

The Empty Boats

 Why do I see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas? 
One haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze, 
Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass: 
There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass. 
Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride 
And climb the glorious mysteries of Heaven's silent tide 
In voyages that change the very metes and bounds of Fate — 
O empty boats, we all refuse, that by our windows wait!


by Vachel Lindsay |

Honor Among Scamps

 We are the smirched. Queen Honor is the spotless. 
We slept thro' wars where Honor could not sleep. 
We were faint-hearted. Honor was full-valiant. 
We kept a silence Honor could not keep. 

Yet this late day we make a song to praise her. 
We, codeless, will yet vindicate her code. 
She who was mighty, walks with us, the beggars. 
The merchants drive her out upon the road. 

She makes a throne of sod beside our campfire. 
We give the maiden-queen our rags and tears. 
A battered, rascal guard have rallied round her, 
To keep her safe until the better years.