Vachel Lindsay: Всі вірші поета

Всі вірші Оригінали Переклади

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The Spider And The Ghost Of The Fly

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.

Vachel Lindsay

This Section Is A Christmas Tree

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.

Vachel Lindsay

Ghosts In Love

"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.

Vachel Lindsay

The Queen Of Bubbles

[Written for a picture]

The Youth speaks: —:

"Why do you seek the sun

In your bubble-crown ascending?

Your chariot will melt to mist.

Your crown will have an ending."

The Goddess replies: — :

"Nay, sun is but a bubble,

Vachel Lindsay

On The Building Of Springfield

Let not our town be large, remembering

That little Athens was the Muses' home,

That Oxford rules the heart of London still,

That Florence gave the Renaissance to Rome.

Record it for the grandson of your son —

A city is not builded in a day:

Our little town cannot complete her soul

Till countless generations pass away.

Vachel Lindsay

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

Vachel Lindsay

The Congo: A Study Of The Negro Race

I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY

Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,

Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,

Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,

A deep rolling bass.

Pounded on the table,

Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,

Hard as they were able,

Vachel Lindsay

Factory Windows Are Always Broken

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.

Vachel Lindsay

A Rhyme About An Electrical Advertising Sign

I look on the specious electrical light

Blatant, mechanical, crawling and white,

Wickedly red or malignantly green

Like the beads of a young Senegambian queen.

Showing, while millions of souls hurry on,

The virtues of collars, from sunset till dawn,

By dart or by tumble of whirl within whirl,

Starting new fads for the shame-weary girl,

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!"

Composition date is unknown - the above date represents the first publication date.The lyrical form of this poem is abcdcec.

Vachel Lindsay

An Indian Summer Day On The Prairie

(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,

Vachel Lindsay

The Leaden-Eyed

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.

Vachel Lindsay