Poem by Vachel Lindsay

The Drunkards in the Street

The Drunkards in the street are calling one another, 
Heeding not the night-wind, great of heart and gay, — 
Publicans and wantons — 
Calling, laughing, calling, 
While the Spirit bloweth Space and Time away. 

Why should I feel the sobbing, the secrecy, the glory, 
This comforter, this fitful wind divine? 
I the cautious Pharisee, the scribe, the whited sepulchre — 
I have no right to God, he is not mine. 

Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell. 
I say my prayers by my white bed to-night, 
With the arms of God about me, with the angels singing, singing 
Until the grayness of my soul grows white.

1. To Reformers in Despair
2. The Master of the Dance
3. Sweet Briars of the Stairways
4. The Leaden-Eyed
5. The Haughty Snail-King

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