Do You Remember, Springfield?
(V ACHEL L INDSAY , NOVEMBER 10, 1879 — DECEMBER 5, 1931)
The Illinois earth is black
(Do you remember, Springfield?)
The State is shaped like a heart,
Shaped like an arrowhead.
The black earth goes deep down.
(Do you remember, Springfield?)
Three feet under the plow
You can find the black earth still.
The towns settled, the woods
Fine in the spring and autumn,
The waters large and rolling,
The black earth ready to hand.
Surely this earth, this air
Should bear the prophet-singers,
Minstrels like colts unbroken,
Minstrels of leaves and corn.
Baltimore gave a stone,
A stone to another singer
(Do you remember, Springfield?)
But that was in years gone by.
A cat to tear at his breast
And a glass to work him madness,
That was the gift to Poe:
But things are different here.
There are votes here to be bought
And rich men here to buy them;
What more could a poet ask
Of the streets where Lincoln strode?
The Board of Health is superb.
The ladies watchful and cultured.
What more could a poet need
Or the heart of man desire?
Gather the leaves with rakes,
The burning autumn, Springfield,
Gather them in with rakes
Lest one of them turn to gold.
A leaf is only a leaf,
It is worth nothing, in Springfield.
It is worth as little as song,
Little as light and air.
Trap the lark in the corn,
Let it tell of your bounty, Springfield.
If you burn its eyes with a wire
It still will sing for a space.
A man is another affair.
We understand that, in Springfield.
If he sings, why, let him sing
As long as we need not hear.
He came with singing leaves;
It was really most unfortunate.
The Lindsays and the Frazees
Are sturdy pioneer stock.
He came with broncos and clouds
And the cornsilk of the moonlight.
It is not a usual thing
In Springfield, Illinois.
We will show his room and his book
For that brings trade to the city.
We try to use everything.
If you like, you can see his grave.
His mouth is stopped with earth,
The deep, black earth of Springfield.
He will not sing any more.
It is fine earth for the mute.
Let us give the Arts their due
And Lincoln a marble courthouse.
Both are respectably dead.
They need not trouble us, now.
Break the colts to the plow
And make them pull their hearts out.
Break the broncos of dancing
And sell them for bones and hide.
The Illinois earth is black
(Do you remember, Springfield?)
The State is shaped like a heart,
Shaped like an arrowhead.
The black earth goes deep down.
(Do you remember, Springfield?)
Three feet under the plow
You can find the black earth still.
The towns settled, the woods
Fine in the spring and autumn,
The waters large and rolling,
The black earth ready to hand.
Surely this earth, this air
Should bear the prophet-singers,
Minstrels like colts unbroken,
Minstrels of leaves and corn.
Baltimore gave a stone,
A stone to another singer
(Do you remember, Springfield?)
But that was in years gone by.
A cat to tear at his breast
And a glass to work him madness,
That was the gift to Poe:
But things are different here.
There are votes here to be bought
And rich men here to buy them;
What more could a poet ask
Of the streets where Lincoln strode?
The Board of Health is superb.
The ladies watchful and cultured.
What more could a poet need
Or the heart of man desire?
Gather the leaves with rakes,
The burning autumn, Springfield,
Gather them in with rakes
Lest one of them turn to gold.
A leaf is only a leaf,
It is worth nothing, in Springfield.
It is worth as little as song,
Little as light and air.
Trap the lark in the corn,
Let it tell of your bounty, Springfield.
If you burn its eyes with a wire
It still will sing for a space.
A man is another affair.
We understand that, in Springfield.
If he sings, why, let him sing
As long as we need not hear.
He came with singing leaves;
It was really most unfortunate.
The Lindsays and the Frazees
Are sturdy pioneer stock.
He came with broncos and clouds
And the cornsilk of the moonlight.
It is not a usual thing
In Springfield, Illinois.
We will show his room and his book
For that brings trade to the city.
We try to use everything.
If you like, you can see his grave.
His mouth is stopped with earth,
The deep, black earth of Springfield.
He will not sing any more.
It is fine earth for the mute.
Let us give the Arts their due
And Lincoln a marble courthouse.
Both are respectably dead.
They need not trouble us, now.
Break the colts to the plow
And make them pull their hearts out.
Break the broncos of dancing
And sell them for bones and hide.
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