Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | ||
IN PRAISE OF SONGS THAT DIE
Ah, they are passing, passing by,Wonderful songs, but born to die!
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Waves thrice-winged with harmonies.
Here I stand on a pier in the foam
Seeing the songs to the beach go home,
Dying in sand while the tide flows back,
As it flowed of old in its fated track.
O hurrying tide that will not hear
Your own foam-children dying near:
Is there no refuge-house of song,
No home, no haven where songs belong?
O precious hymns that come and go!
You perish, and I love you so!
Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | ||