More by Vachel Lindsay
And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?
The Congo, and Other Poems (1914)
Man is a torch, then ashes soon,
May and June, then dead December,
Dead December, then again June.
Who shall end my dream's confusion?
Life is a loom, weaving illusion.
The Chinese Nightingale, and Other Poems (1919)
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum—
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
The Saints smiled gravely and they said:
"He's come."
General William Booth Enters into Heaven, and Other Poems (1913)
The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
In the days of long ago,
Ranged where the locomotives sing
And the prairie flowers lie low.
Going-to-the-Stars (1926)
Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.
The Congo, and Other Poems (1914)
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.
The Congo, and Other Poems (1914)
I am still making my living reciting my verses for crowds who refuse to buy my books. I must do this, as all American rhymers must, however sick I may be of the sound of my own voice.
What It Means to Be a Poet in America (1926)
They gore no more, they bellow no more,
They trundle around the hills no more:—
With the Blackfeet, lying low,
With the Pawnees, lying low,
Lying low.
Going-to-the-Stars (1926)
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