The moon's a brass-hooped water-keg,
A wondrous water-feast.
If I could climb the ridge and drink
And give drink to my beast;
If I could drain that keg, the flies
Would not be biting so,
My burning feet be spry again,
My mule no longer slow.
And I could rise and dig for ore,
And reach my fatherland,
And not be food for ants and hawks
And perish in the sand.
More verses by Vachel Lindsay
- Incense
- Once More—to Gloriana
- How Samson Bore Away The Gates Of Gaza
- The Voice Of The Man Impatient With Visions And Utopias
- Edwin Booth