“The sun is a huntress young, The sun is a red, red joy, The sun is an Indian girl, Of the tribe of the Illinois. The sun is a smouldering fire, That creeps through the high gray plain, And leaves not a bush of cloud To blossom with flowers of rain. The sun is a wounded deer, That treads pale grass in the skies, Shaking his golden horns, Flashing his baleful eyes. The sun is an eagle old, There in the windless west. Atop of the spirit-cliffs He builds him a crimson nest.”
Quote by Vachel Lindsay
Work
The Congo and Other Poems
This book is a compilation of poems that delve into various aspects of the Congo, offering a poetic perspective on the region's landscapes, cultures, and historical events. more
Author
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