Carl Sandburg Poems
- Fog The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking
- Chicago Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of ...
- Arithmetic Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in ...
- At A Window Give me hunger, O you gods that sit and give ...
- Grass Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. ...
- Among The Red Guns Among the red guns, In the hearts of ...
- A Father To His Son A father sees his son nearing ...
Carl Sandburg was an American writer and editor, best known for his poetry. He won three Pulitzer Prizes, two for his poetry and another for a biography of Abraham Lincoln. H. L. Mencken called Carl Sandburg "indubitably an American in every pulse-beat."
Sandburg was born in Galesburg, Illinois, to parents of Swedish ancestry. At the age of thirteen (During Eighth grade) he left school and began driving a milk wagon. From the age of about fourteen until he was seventeen or eighteen, he worked as a porter at the Union Hotel barbershop in Galesburg. After that he was on the milk route again for 18 months. He then became a bricklayer and a farm laborer... more »
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Quotationsmore quotations »
''Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.''Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), U.S. poet. New York Times (Feb. 13, 1959).
''Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.''Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), U.S. poet. Quoted in The Reader's Digest (Pleasantville, New York, February, 1978).
''The mammoth rests between his cyclonic dramas.''Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), U.S. poet. The People, Yes (l. 7). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford Univers...
''Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.''Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), U.S. poet. The People, Yes (1936). The words were popularized during the anti-war protests of the 1960s, and were echoe...
''The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.''Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), U.S. poet. Two Nocturnes.
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.