Poem by Vachel Lindsay

Drying Their Wings

 What the Carpenter Said

THE moon's a cottage with a door.
Some folks can see it plain.
Look, you may catch a glint of light,
A sparkle through the pane,
Showing the place is brighter still
Within, though bright without.
There, at a cosy open fire
Strange babes are grouped about.
The children of the wind and tide--
The urchins of the sky,
Drying their wings from storms and things
So they again can fly. 

1. With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses
2. What the Gray-Winged Fairy Said
3. The Drunkards in the Street
4. What the Sexton Said
5. The Firemen’s Ball

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