I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope, Tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope; Shaking window-pane and door With a crashing cosmic tune, With the war-cry of the spheres, Rhythm of the roar of noon, Rhythm of Niagara’s roar, Voicing planet, star and moon, SHRIEKING of the better years. Prophet-singers will arise, Prophets coming after me, Sing my song in softer guise With more delicate surprise; I am but the pioneer Voice of the Democracy; I am the gutter-dream, I am the golden dream, Singing science, singing steam. I will blow the proud folk down, (Listen to the lion roar!) I am the Kallyope, Kallyope, Kallyope, Tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, tooting hope, Willy willy willy wah HOO! Hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, hoot toot, Whoop whoop, whoop whoop, Whoop whoop, whoop whoop, Willy willy willy wah HOO! Sizz ..... Fizz ..... _The Forum_ _Nicholas Vachel Lindsay_ THANKSGIVING FOR OUR TASK The sickle is dulled of the reaping and the threshing-floor is bare; The dust of night’s in the air. The peace of the weary is ours: All day we have taken the fruit and the grain and the seeds of the flowers. The ev’ning is chill, It is good now to gather in peace by the flames of the fire. We have done now the deed that we did for our need and desire: We have wrought our will. And now for the boon of abundance and golden increase, And immurèd peace, Shall we thank our God? Bethink us, amid His indulgence, His terrible rod? Shall we be as the maple and oak, Strew the earth with our gold, giving only bare boughs to the sky? Nay, the pine stayeth green while the Winter growls sullenly by, And doth not revoke For soft days or stern days the pledge of its constancy. Shall we not be Also the same through all days, Giving thanks when the battle breaks on us, in toil giving praise? O Father who saw at the dawn, That the folly of Pride would be the lush weed of our sin, There is better than that in our hearts, O enter therein, A light burneth, though wan And weak be the flame, yet it gloweth, our Humility! Ah, how can it be Trimmed o’ the wick, And replenished with oil to burn brightly and golden and quick? For deep in our hearts We wish to be thankful through lean years and fat without change, Knowing that here Thou hast set for the spirit a range: We would play well our parts, Making America throb with the building of souls and the glory of good; Yea, and we would, And before the last Autumn we will Build a temple from ocean to ocean where deeds never still Melodiously shall proclaim Thanksgiving forever that Thou hast set here to our hand So wondrous a mystical harvest, that Thou dost demand Sheaves bound in Thy name, Yea, supersubstantial sheaves of strong souls that have grown Fain to be known As the corn of Thine occident field: O Yielder of All, can America worthily thank Thee till such be her yield?