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Vachel Lindsay Short Poems

Famous Short Vachel Lindsay Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Vachel Lindsay. A collection of the all-time best Vachel Lindsay short poems


by Vachel Lindsay
 THIS section is a Christmas tree: 
Loaded with pretty toys for you.
Behold the blocks, the Noah's arks, The popguns painted red and blue.
No solemn pine-cone forest-fruit, But silver horns and candy sacks And many little tinsel hearts And cherubs pink, and jumping-jacks.
For every child a gift, I hope.
The doll upon the topmost bough Is mine.
But all the rest are yours.
And I will light the candles now.



by Vachel Lindsay
 TRUE Love is founded in rocks of Remembrance 
In stones of Forbearance and mortar of pain.
The workman lays wearily granite on granite, And bleeds for his castle, 'mid sunshine and rain.
Love is not velvet, not all of it velvet, Not all of it banners, not gold-leaf alone.
'Tis stern as the ages and old as Religion.
With Patience its watchword and Law for its throne.

by Vachel Lindsay
 "Tell me, where do ghosts in love 
Find their bridal veils?" 

"If you and I were ghosts in love 
We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery, 
Above the sea of Wails.
I'd trim your gray and streaming hair With veils of Fantasy From the tree of Memory.
'Tis there the ghosts that fall in love Find their bridal veils.
"

by Vachel Lindsay
 A Recitation for Martha Wakefield, Three Years Old


There was a little turtle.
He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.
He snapped at a mosquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.
He caught the mosquito.
He caught the flea.
He caught the minnow.
But he didn't catch me.

by Vachel Lindsay
 FACTORY windows are always broken.
Somebody's always throwing bricks, Somebody's always heaving cinders, Playing ugly Yahoo tricks.
Factory windows are always broken.
Other windows are let alone.
No one throws through the chapel-window The bitter, snarling, derisive stone.
Factory windows are always broken.
Something or other is going wrong.
Something is rotten--I think, in Denmark.
End of factory-window song.



by Vachel Lindsay
 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.

Euclid  Create an image from this poem
by Vachel Lindsay
 OLD Euclid drew a circle 
On a sand-beach long ago.
He bounded and enclosed it With angles thus and so.
His set of solemn greybeards Nodded and argued much Of arc and circumference, Diameter and such.
A silent child stood by them From morning until noon Because they drew such charming Round pictures of the moon.

by Vachel Lindsay
 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.

by Vachel Lindsay
 No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon, And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate Fill thou my soul with hidden wine To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice Has laid temptation low.

by Vachel Lindsay
 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?

by Vachel Lindsay
 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
 The Lion is a kingly beast.
He likes a Hindu for a feast.
And if no Hindu he can get, The lion-family is upset.
He cuffs his wife and bites her ears Till she is nearly moved to tears.
Then some explorer finds the den And all is family peace again.

by Vachel Lindsay
 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!

Buddha  Create an image from this poem
by Vachel Lindsay
 Would that by Hindu magic we became 
Dark monks of jeweled India long ago, 
Sitting at Prince Siddartha's feet to know 
The foolishness of gold and love and station, 
The gospel of the Great Renunciation, 
The ragged cloak, the staff, the rain and sun, 
The beggar's life, with far Nirvana gleaming: 
Lord, make us Buddhas, dreaming.

by Vachel Lindsay
 The cornfields rise above mankind, 
Lifting white torches to the blue, 
Each season not ashamed to be 
Magnificently decked for you.
What right have you to call them yours, And in brute lust of riches burn Without some radiant penance wrought, Some beautiful, devout return?

by Vachel Lindsay
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sat gossiping with Robert.
(She was really a raving beauty in her day.
With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.
) She was trying to think of something nice to say, So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage, And said: "I wish that I could write that way!"

by Vachel Lindsay
 Once I loved a spider
When I was born a fly,
A velvet-footed spider
With a gown of rainbow-dye.
She ate my wings and gloated.
She bound me with a hair.
She drove me to her parlor Above her winding stair.
To educate young spiders She took me all apart.
My ghost came back to haunt her.
I saw her eat my heart.

by Vachel Lindsay
 Look you, I'll go pray, 
My shame is crying, 
My soul is gray and faint, 
My faith is dying.
Look you, I'll go pray — "Sweet Mary, make me clean, Thou rainstorm of the soul, Thou wine from worlds unseen.
"

by Vachel Lindsay
 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.
"

by Vachel Lindsay
 Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, 
That which is gendered in the wilderness 
From lonely prairies and God's tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream, Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream, Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave, Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire — Fire that freed the slave.

by Vachel Lindsay
 Ah, she was music in herself, 
A symphony of joyousness.
She sang, she sang from finger tips, From every tremble of her dress.
I saw sweet haunting harmony, An ecstasy, an ecstasy, In that strange curling of her lips, That happy curling of her lips.
And quivering with melody Those eyes I saw, that tossing head.
And so I saw what music was, Tho' still accursed with ears of lead.

by Vachel Lindsay
 Would that in body and spirit Shakespeare came 
Visible emperor of the deeds of Time, 
With Justice still the genius of his rhyme, 
Giving each man his due, each passion grace, 
Impartial as the rain from Heaven's face 
Or sunshine from the heaven-enthroned sun.
Sweet Swan of Avon, come to us again.
Teach us to write, and writing, to be men.

by Vachel Lindsay
 Let not young souls be smothered out before
They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.
It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull, Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.
Not that they starve; but starve so dreamlessly, Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap, Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve, Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.

by Vachel Lindsay
 Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven? 
Are these your hands upon my wounded soul? 
Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me, 
Fly by my path till you have made me whole!

by Vachel Lindsay
 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.