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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=532798" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Tree of Laughing Bells</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">[A Poem for Aviators]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>How the Wings Were Made</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From many morning-glories <br>That in an hour will fade, <br>From many pansy buds <br>Gathered in the shade, <br>From lily of the valley <br>And dandelion buds, <br>From fiery poppy-buds <br>Are the Wings of the Morning made. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Indian Girl Who Made Them</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These, the Wings of the Morning, <br>An Indian Maiden wove, <br>Intertwining subtilely <br>Wands from a willow grove <br>Beside the Sangamon — <br>Rude stream of Dreamland Town. <br>She bound them to my shoulders <br>With fingers golden-brown. <br>The wings were part of me; <br>The willow-wands were hot. <br>Pulses from my heart <br>Healed each bruise and spot <br>Of the morning-glory buds, <br>Beginning to unfold <br>Beneath her burning song of suns untold. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Indian Girl Tells the Hero Where to Go to Get the Laughing Bell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;To the farthest star of all, <br>Go, make a moment's raid. <br>To the west — escape the earth <br>Before your pennons fade! <br>West! west! o'ertake the night <br>That flees the morning sun. <br>There's a path between the stars — <br>A black and silent one. <br>O tremble when you near <br>The smallest star that sings: <br>Only the farthest star <br>Is cool for willow wings. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;There's a sky within the west — <br>There's a sky beyond the skies <br>Where only one star shines — <br>The Star of Laughing Bells — <br>In Chaos-land it lies; <br>Cold as morning-dew, <br>A gray and tiny boat <br>Moored on Chaos-shore, <br>Where nothing else can float <br>But the Wings of the Morning strong <br>And the lilt of laughing song <br>From many a ruddy throat: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;For the Tree of Laughing Bells <br>Grew from a bleeding seed <br>Planted mid enchantment <br>Played on a harp and reed: <br>Darkness was the harp — <br>Chaos-wind the reed; <br>The fruit of the tree is a bell, blood-red — <br>The seed was the heart of a fairy, dead. <br>Part of the bells of the Laughing Tree <br>Fell to-day at a blast from the reed. <br>Bring a fallen bell to me. <br>Go!&quot; the maiden said. <br>&quot;For the bell will quench our memory, <br>Our hope, <br>Our borrowed sorrow; <br>We will have no thirst for yesterday, <br>No thought for to-morrow.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Journey Starts Swiftly</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A thousand times ten thousand times <br>More swift than the sun's swift light <br>Were the Morning Wings in their flight <br>On — On — <br>West of the Universe, <br>Thro' the West <br>To Chaos-night. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He Nears the Goal</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How the red bells rang <br>As I neared the Chaos-shore! <br>As I flew across to the end of the West <br>The young bells rang and rang <br>Above the Chaos roar, <br>And the Wings of the Morning <br>Beat in tune <br>And bore me like a bird along —<br>And the nearing star turned to a moon —<br>Gray moon, with a brow of red — <br>Gray moon with a golden song. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a diver after pearls <br>I plunged to that stifling floor. <br>It was wide as a giant's wheat-field <br>An icy, wind-washed shore. <br>O laughing, proud, but trembling star! <br>O wind that wounded sore! </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He Climbs the Hill Where the Tree Grows</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On — <br>Thro' the gleaming gray <br>I ran to the storm and clang — <br>To the red, red hill where the great tree swayed — <br>And scattered bells like autumn leaves. <br>How the red bells rang! <br>My breath within my breast <br>Was held like a diver's breath — <br>The leaves were tangled locks of gray — <br>The boughs of the tree were white and gray, <br>Shaped like scythes of Death. <br>The boughs of the tree would sweep and sway — <br>Sway like scythes of Death. <br>But it was beautiful! <br>I knew that all was well. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A thousand bells from a thousand boughs <br>Each moment bloomed and fell. <br>On the hill of the wind-swept tree <br>There were no bells asleep; <br>They sang beneath my trailing wings <br>Like rivers sweet and steep. <br>Deep rock-clefts before my feet <br>Mighty chimes did keep <br>And little choirs did keep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He Receives the Bells</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Honeyed, small and fair, <br>Like flowers, in flowery lands — <br>Like little maidens' hands — <br>Two bells fell in my hair, <br>Two bells caressed my hair. <br>I pressed them to my purple lips <br>In the strangling Chaos-air. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He Starts on the Return Journey</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On desperate wings and strong, <br>Two bells within my breast, <br>I breathed again, I breathed again — <br>West of the Universe — <br>West of the skies of the West. <br>Into the black toward home, <br>And never a star in sight, <br>By Faith that is blind I took my way <br>With my two bosomed blossoms gay <br>Till a speck in the East was the Milky way: <br>Till starlit was the night. <br>And the bells had quenched all memory — <br>All hope — <br>All borrowed sorrow: <br>I had no thirst for yesterday, <br>No thought for to-morrow. <br>Like hearts within my breast <br>The bells would throb to me <br>And drown the siren stars <br>That sang enticingly; <br>My heart became a bell — <br>Three bells were in my breast, <br>Three hearts to comfort me. <br>We reached the daytime happily — <br>We reached the earth with glee. <br>In an hour, in an hour it was done! <br>The wings in their morning flight <br>Were a thousand times ten thousand times <br>More swift than beams of light. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He Gives What He Won to the Indian Girl</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I panted in the grassy wood; <br>I kissed the Indian Maid <br>As she took my wings from me: <br>With all the grace I could <br>I gave two throbbing bells to her <br>From the foot of the Laughing Tree. <br>And one she pressed to her golden breast <br>And one, gave back to me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From Lilies of the valley — <br>See them fade. <br>From poppy-blooms all frayed, <br>From dandelions gray with care, <br>From pansy-faces, worn and torn, <br>From morning-glories — <br>See them fade — <br>From all things fragile, faint and fair <br>Are the Wings of the Morning made!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Vachel+Lindsay">Vachel Lindsay</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=532798" data-title="The Tree of Laughing Bells de Vachel Lindsay" data-description="[A Poem for Aviators]


How the Wings Were Made

From many morning-glories 
That in an hour will fade, 
From many pansy buds 
Gathered in the shade, 
From lily of the valley 
And dandelion buds, 
From fiery poppy-buds 
Are the Wings of the Morning..."></div>
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