The moon's an open furnace door
Where all can see the blast,
We shovel in our blackest griefs,
Upon that grate are cast
Our aching burdens, loves and fears
And underneath them wait
Paper and tar and pitch and pine
Called strife and blood and hate.

Out of it all there comes a flame,
A splendid widening light.
Sorrow is turned to mystery
And Death into delight. 

Added: Jun 15 2005 | Viewed: 352 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Vachel Lindsay
Poem: What the Coal-Heaver Said
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, What the Coal-Heaver Said, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Vachel Lindsay with others on the American Poems poetry forum!