 | Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay |  |
The Indian Girl Who Made Them
These, the Wings of the Morning,An Indian Maiden wove,
Intertwining subtlely
Wands from a willow grove
Beside the Sangamon—
Rude stream of Dreamland Town.
She bound them to my shoulders
With fingers golden-brown.
The wings were part of me;
The willow-wands were hot.
Pulses from my heart
Healed each bruise and spot
Of the morning-glory buds,
Beginning to unfold
Beneath her burning song of suns untold.
| Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | |