Poem by Vachel Lindsay

* * *

The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there’s but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy 
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!

1. The King of Yellow Butterflies
2. On the Building of Springfield
3. How a Little Girl Danced
4. Foreign Missions in Battle Array
5. In Praise of Songs that Die

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