Vachel Lindsay

Springfield Magical

In this, the City of my Discontent, 
Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass, 
”Romance, Romance — is here. No Hindu town 
Is quite so strange. No Citadel of Brass 
By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate; 
No picture-palace in a picture-book 
Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!” 

In this, the City of my Discontent, 
Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep 
Wild legends new and old burn round my bed 
While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep. 
Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts, 
Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent; 
And, for a day, fair Peace have given me 
In this, the City of my Discontent!