Poem by Vachel Lindsay

What the Ghost of the Gambler Said

WHERE now the huts are empty, 
Where never a camp-fire glows, 
In an abandoned canyon, 
A Gambler’s Ghost arose. 
He muttered there, ”The moon’s a sack 
Of dust.” His voice rose thin: 
”I wish I knew the miner-man. 
I’d play, and play to win. 
In every game in Cripple-creek 
Of old, when stakes were high, 
I held my own. Now I would play 
For that sack in the sky. 
The sport would not be ended there. 
’Twould rather be begun. 
I’d bet my moon against his stars, 
And gamble for the sun.

1. Upon Returning to the Country Road
2. Sweet Briars of the Stairways
3. The Haughty Snail-King
4. The Spice-Tree
5. The Master of the Dance

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