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. Foreign Missions in Battle Array
2. The Cornfields
3. To Jane Addams at the Hague
4. Mark Twain and Joan of Arc
5. Buddha

Print

1684 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version