The sun is blazing big as all the sky, The mustard-plant with the sunflower climbing high, With the Indian corn in fiery plumes arrayed:-- It is the cross-roads Love and Beauty Crusade. Free and proud and mellow jamboree, Roar and foam upon the prairie sea, Tom turkeys sing the sun a serenade:-- It is the cross-roads Resurrection Parade. Our sweethearts dance, with wands as white as milk, With veils of gold and robes of silver silk, Their caps in velvet pansy-patterns made:-- It is the cross-roads Resurrection Parade. Wandering ’round the shrines we understand, Waving oak-boughs cheap and close at hand, And field-flowers fair, for which no man has paid:-- It is the cross-roads Love and Beauty Crusade. Hieroglyphic marchers here we bring. Rich inscriptions strut and talk and sing. A scroll to read, a picture-word brigade:-- It is the cross-roads Love and Laughter Crusade. Swans for symbols deck the banners rare, Mighty acorn-signs command the air, For hearts of oak, by flying beauty swayed:-- It is the cross-roads Resurrection Parade. The flags are big, like rainbows flashing ’round, They spread like sails, and lift us from the ground, Star-born ships, that have come in masquerade:-- It is the cross-roads Resurrection Parade. THE DREAM OF ALL THE SPRINGFIELD WRITERS I’ll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men, The darling few, my friends and loves today. My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen When far off children of their children play. That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire. I’ll write upon the church-doors and the walls. And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher Though drunk already with their own love-calls. Still led of love and arm in arm, strange gold Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black-- On tree-trunks black beneath the blossoms white:-- Just as the phosphorent merman, bound for home Jewels his fire-path in the tides at night While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam. And in December when the leaves are dead And the first snow has carpeted the street While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet-- My pen shall cut in winter’s snowy floor Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine, My Village Gospel, living evermore Amid rejoicing, loyal friends of mine. THE SPRINGFIELD OF THE FAR FUTURE Some day our town will grow old. “She is wicked and raw,” men say, “Awkward and brash and profane.” But the years have a healing way. The years of God are like bread, Balm of Gilead and sweet. And the soul of this little town Our Father will make complete.