Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

(I asked the old negro: “What is that bird that sings so well?” He answered: “That is the Rachel-Jane.” “Hasn't it another name—lark, or thrush, or the like?” “No. Jus' Rachel-Jane.”)

153

I. In Which a Racing Auto Comes from the East

This is the order of the music of the morning;—

To be sung delicately, to an improvised tune.

First, from the far East comes but a crooning.
The crooning turns to a sunrise singing.
Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn.
Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn. ...

Hark to the pace-horn, chase-horn, race-horn.

To be sung or read with great speed.

And the holy veil of the dawn has gone.
Swiftly the brazen car comes on.
It burns in the East as the sunrise burns.
I see great flashes where the far trail turns.
Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons.
It drinks gasoline from big red flagons.
Butting through the delicate mists of the morning,
It comes like lightning, goes past roaring.
It will hail all the windmills, taunting, ringing,
Dodge the cyclones,
Count the milestones,
On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills—
Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills. ...
Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn,

To be read or sung in a rolling bass, with some deliberation.

Ho for the gay-horn, bark-horn, bay-horn.
Ho for Kansas, land that restores us
When houses choke us, and great books bore us!

154

Sunrise Kansas, harvesters' Kansas,
A million men have found you before us.
A million men have found you before us.

II. In Which Many Autos Pass Westward

I want live things in their pride to remain.

In an even, deliberate, narrative manner.

I will not kill one grasshopper vain
Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door.
I let him out, give him one chance more.
Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim,
Grasshopper lyrics occur to him.

I am a tramp by the long trail's border,
Given to squalor, rags and disorder.
I nap and amble and yawn and look,
Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book,
Recite to the children, explore at my ease,
Work when I work, beg when I please,
Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare
To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare,
And get me a place to sleep in the hay
At the end of a live-and-let-live day.

I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds
A whisper and a feasting, all one needs:
The whisper of the strawberries, white and red
Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead.

But I would not walk all alone till I die
Without some life-drunk horns going by.
And up round this apple-earth they come
Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:—

155

Cars in a plain realistic row.
And fair dreams fade
When the raw horns blow.

On each snapping pennant
A big black name:—
The careering city
Whence each car came.
They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah,
Tallahassee and Texarkana.
They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee,

Like a train-caller in a Union Depot.

They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee.
Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston,
Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin.
Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo.
Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo.
Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi,
Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami.
Ho for Kansas, land that restores us
When houses choke us, and great books bore us!
While I watch the highroad
And look at the sky,
While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur
Roll their legions without rain
Over the blistering Kansas plain—
While I sit by the milestone
And watch the sky,
The United States
Goes by.

Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking.

To be given very harshly, with a snapping explosiveness.

Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking.
Way down the road, trilling like a toad,

156

Here comes the dice-horn, here comes the vice-horn,
Here comes the snarl-horn, brawl-horn, lewd-horn,
Followed by the prude-horn, bleak and squeaking:—
(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.)
Here comes the hod-horn, plod-horn, sod-horn,
Nevermore-to-roam-horn, loam-horn, home-horn.
(Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.)
Far away the Rachel-Jane

To be read or sung, well-nigh in a whisper.

Not defeated by the horns
Sings amid a hedge of thorns:—
“Love and life,
Eternal youth—
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
Dew and glory,
Love and truth,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.”
While SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD,

Louder and louder, faster and faster.

Driven AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL FIEND'S OX-GOAD,
Screaming TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST,
Carry OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST,
And HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST,

157

The HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS,
The SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS.
And then, in an instant, ye modern men,

In a rolling bass, with increasing deliberation.

Behold the procession once again,
The United States goes by!
Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking,

With a snapping explosiveness.

Listen to the wise-horn, desperate-to-advise horn,
Listen to the fast-horn, kill-horn, blast-horn. ...
Far away the Rachel-Jane

To be sung or read well-nigh in a whisper.

Not defeated by the horns
Sings amid a hedge of thorns:—
Love and life,
Eternal youth,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
Dew and glory,
Love and truth.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet,
The mufflers open on a score of cars

To be brawled in the beginning with a snapping explosiveness, ending in a languorous chant.

With wonderful thunder,
Crack, CRACK, CRACK,
Crack-crack, CRACK-CRACK,
Crack, CRACK, CRACK,
Listen to the gold-horn ...
Old-horn ...
Cold horn ...
And all of the tunes, till the night comes down
On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town.

158

Then far in the west, as in the beginning,

To be sung to exactly the same whispered tune as the first five lines.

Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating,
Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn,
Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn. ...

They are hunting the goals that they understand:—

This section beginning sonorously, ending in a languorous whisper.

San-Francisco and the brown sea-sand.
My goal is the mystery the beggars win.
I am caught in the web the night-winds spin.
The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me.
I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree.
And now I hear, as I sit all alone
In the dusk, by another big Santa-Fé stone,
The souls of the tall corn gathering round
And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground.
Listen to the tale the cottonwood tells.
Listen to the windmills, singing o'er the wells.
Listen to the whistling flutes without price
Of myriad prophets out of paradise.
Harken to the wonder
That the night-air carries. ...
Listen ... to ... the ... whisper ...
Of ... the ... prairie ... fairies
Singing o'er the fairy plain:—

To the same whispered tune as the Rachel-Jane song—but very slowly.

“Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet.
Love and glory,
Stars and rain,
Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. ...”