The Moon Songs : Seven Settings of Poems by Vachel Lindsay for SSA Choir and Piano
SSA - Digital Sheet Music

Choral Choir (SSA) - Digital Download

SKU: A0.741903

Composed by M. Ryan Taylor. 20th Century,Contemporary. Octavo. 37 pages. Vocal Works #483983. Published by Vocal Works (A0.741903).

Note from the Author: "Whimsical, macabre, deeply spiritual: the poetry of Vachel Lindsay has long attracted me for it’s wild variety, lyric sensibility and deep emotional impact. Although made famous by such poems as "The Congo" and "General William Booth Marches into Heaven" (the title poems for the anthologies from which "The Moon Songs" were selected), I have been attracted mainly to his more concise poems "in which the moon is the principle figure of speech." These poems explore human perspective, Linday’s hypothesis being that "the moon is a mirror" in which we find what we bring. Lindsay wrote many of these moon poems and it was difficult to choose between so many fine poems. In the end, I based my selection on variety, dramatic contrast and a progression towards my own view of the moon, one that is spiritual." The Texts: Selections from General William Booth Marches into Heaven and The Congo by American poet, Vachel Lindsay. What Grandpa Told the Children The moon? It is a griffin’s egg, Hatching to-morrow night. And how the little boys will watch With shouting and delight To see him break the shell and stretch And creep across the sky. The boys will laugh. The little girls, I fear, may hide and cry. Yet gentle will the griffin be, Most decorous and fat, And walk up to the Milky Way And lap it like a cat. What the Hyena Said The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms Are wreathed around her brow. The Moon-Worms are a doughty race: They eat her gray and golden face. Her eye-sockets dead, and molding head: These caverns are their dwelling-place. The Moon-Worms, serpents of the skies, From the great hollows of her eyes Behold all souls, and they are wise: With tiny, keen and icy eyes, Behold how each man sins and dies. When Earth in gold-corruption lies Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies On cyclone wings will reach this place – Yea, rear their brood on earth’s dead face. The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky 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! What the Miner in the Desert Said The moon’s a brass-hooped water-keg, A wondrous water-feast. If I could climb the ridge and drink And give drink to my beast; If I could drain that keg, the flies Would not be biting so, My burning feet be spry again, My mule no longer slow. And I could rise and dig for ore, And reach my fatherland, And not be food for ants and hawks And perish in the sand. What the Rattlesnake Said The moon’s a little prairie-dog. He shivers through the night. He sits upon his hill and cries For fear that I will bite. The sun’s a broncho. He’s afraid Like every other thing, And trembles, morning, noon and night, Lest I should spring, and sting. The Strength of the Lonely The moon’s a monk, unmated, Who walks his cell, the sky. His strength is that of heaven-vowed men Who all life’s flames defy. They turn to stars or shadows, They go like snow or dew – Leaving behind no sorrow – Only the arching blue. What the Man of Faith Said The dew, the rain and moonlight All prove our Father’s mind. The dew, the rain and moonlight Descend to bless mankind. Come, let us see that all men Have land to catch the rain, Have grass to snare the spheres of dew, And fields spread for the grain. Yea, we would give to each poor man Ripe wheat and poppies red, – A peaceful place at evening With the stars just overhead: A net to snare the moonlight, A sod spread to the sun, A place of toil by daytime, Of dreams when toil is done.