Carl Sandburg Poems

She loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in.
In a loose white gown she walks
and a new child tugs at cords in her body.
Her head to the west at evening when the dew is creeping,
...

MAMIE beat her head against the bars of a little Indiana
town and dreamed of romance and big things off
somewhere the way the railroad trains all ran.
...

The owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo
From building and battered paving-stone.
The headlight scoffs at the mist,
And fixes its yellow rays in the cold slow rain;
...

When the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes
of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge,
There are points of high silence--twiddling of thumbs is at an end--bailiffs near cuspidors take fresh
chews of tobacco and wait--and the clock has a chance for its ticking to be heard.
...

Musings of a Police Reporter in the Identification Bureau

You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb.
You have led a hundred secret lives, but you mark only
...

I. CHICKENS

I am The Great White Way of the city:
When you ask what is my desire, I answer:
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EMILY DICKINSON:

You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
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The pawn-shop man knows hunger,
And how far hunger has eaten the heart
Of one who comes with an old keepsake.
Here are wedding rings and baby bracelets,
...

I know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble in January.
...