 | Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay |  |
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.
Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay,—
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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.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.
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.
| Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | |