Part 1

Produced by A. Light and L. Bowser.

+-------------------------------------------------+ | By Vachel Lindsay | | | | The Congo and Other Poems | | General William Booth Enters into Heaven | | The Art of the Moving Picture | | Adventures While Preaching the Gospel of Beauty | +-------------------------------------------------+

General William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems

Vachel Lindsay

This book is dedicated to

Dr. Arthur Paul Wakefield

and

Olive Lindsay Wakefield

Missionaries in China

Contents

General William Booth Enters into Heaven The Drunkards in the Street The City That Will Not Repent The Trap Where is David, the Next King of Israel? On Reading Omar Khayyam The Beggar's Valentine Honor Among Scamps The Gamblers On the Road to Nowhere Upon Returning to the Country Road The Angel and the Clown Springfield Magical Incense The Wedding of the Rose and the Lotos King Arthur's Men Have Come Again Foreign Missions in Battle Array Star of My Heart Look You, I'll Go Pray At Mass Heart of God The Empty Boats With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses St. Francis of Assisi Buddha A Prayer to All the Dead Among Mine Own People To Reformers in Despair Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket To the United States Senate The Knight in Disguise The Wizard in the Street The Eagle that is Forgotten Shakespeare Michelangelo Titian Lincoln The Cornfields Sweet Briars of the Stairways Fantasies and Whims:-- The Fairy Bridal Hymn The Potato's Dance How a Little Girl Sang Ghosts in Love The Queen of Bubbles The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning Sweethearts of the Year The Sorceress! Caught in a Net Eden in Winter Genesis Queen Mab in the Village The Dandelion The Light o' the Moon A Net to Snare the Moonlight Beyond the Moon The Song of the Garden-Toad A Gospel of Beauty:-- The Proud Farmer The Illinois Village On the Building of Springfield

General William Booth Enters into Heaven

The Drunkards in the Street

The Drunkards in the street are calling one another, Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay,-- Publicans and wantons-- Calling, laughing, calling, While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away.

Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, This comforter, this fitful wind divine? I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre-- I have no right to God, he is not mine.

* * * * *

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell. I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing Until the grayness of my soul grows white.

The City That Will Not Repent

Climbing the heights of Berkeley Nightly I watch the West. There lies new San Francisco, Sea-maid in purple dressed, Wearing a dancer's girdle All to inflame desire: Scorning her days of sackcloth, Scorning her cleansing fire.

See, like a burning city Sets now the red sun's dome. See, mystic firebrands sparkle There on each store and home. See how the golden gateway Burns with the day to be-- Torch-bearing fiends of portent Loom o'er the earth and sea.

Not by the earthquake daunted Nor by new fears made tame, Painting her face and laughing Plays she a new-found game. Here on her half-cool cinders 'Frisco abides in mirth, Planning the wildest splendor Ever upon the earth.

Here on this crumbling rock-ledge 'Frisco her all will stake, Blowing her bubble-towers, Swearing they will not break, Rearing her Fair transcendent, Singing with piercing art, Calling to Ancient Asia, Wooing young Europe's heart. Here where her God has scourged her Wantoning, singing sweet: Waiting her mad bad lovers Here by the judgment-seat!

'Frisco, God's doughty foeman, Scorns and blasphemes him strong. Tho' he again should smite her She would not slack her song. Nay, she would shriek and rally-- 'Frisco would ten times rise! Not till her last tower crumbles, Not till her last rose dies, Not till the coast sinks seaward, Not till the cold tides beat Over the high white Shasta, 'Frisco will cry defeat.

God loves this rebel city, Loves foemen brisk and game, Tho', just to please the angels, He may send down his flame. God loves the golden leopard Tho' he may spoil her lair. God smites, yet loves the lion. God makes the panther fair.

Dance then, wild guests of 'Frisco, Yellow, bronze, white and red! Dance by the golden gateway-- Dance, tho' he smite you dead!

The Trap

She was taught desire in the street, Not at the angels' feet. By the good no word was said Of the worth of the bridal bed. The secret was learned from the vile, Not from her mother's smile. Home spoke not. And the girl Was caught in the public whirl. Do you say "She gave consent: Life drunk, she was content With beasts that her fire could please?" But she did not choose disease Of mind and nerves and breath. She was trapped to a slow, foul death. The door was watched so well, That the steep dark stair to hell Was the only escaping way . . . "She gave consent," you say?

Some think she was meek and good, Only lost in the wood Of youth, and deceived in man When the hunger of sex began That ties the husband and wife To the end in a strong fond life. Her captor, by chance was one Of those whose passion was done, A cold fierce worm of the sea Enslaving for you and me. The wages the poor must take Have forced them to serve this snake. Yea, half-paid girls must go For bread to his pit below. What hangman shall wait his host Of butchers from coast to coast, New York to the Golden Gate-- The merger of death and fate, Lust-kings with a careful plan Clean-cut, American?