Drying Their Wings - Poem by Vachel Lindsay
What the Carpenter Said
The moon's a cottage with a door.
Some folks can see it plain.
Look, you may catch a glint of light,
A sparkle through the pane,
Showing the place is brighter still
Within, though bright without.
There, at a cosy open fire
Strange babes are grouped about.
The children of the wind and tide--
The urchins of the sky,
Drying their wings from storms and things
So they again can fly.
Comments about Drying Their Wings by Vachel Lindsay
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.