Poem 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. 

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.

1. With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses
2. What the Sexton Said
3. Our Mother Pocahontas
4. The Firemen’s Ball
5. The Leaden-Eyed

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