English Poetry. Vachel Lindsay. The Moon’s the North Wind’s Cooky. Вэчел Линдсей.

Vachel Lindsay (Вэчел Линдсей)

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The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there’s but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy 
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!

Vachel Lindsay’s other poems:

1. The Potatoes’ Dance
2. I Heard Immanuel Singing
3. When Gassy Thompson Struck It Rich
4. The Tree of Laughing Bells
5. Where Is David, the Next King of Israel?

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