Carl Sandburg Poems
|403.||Three Pieces On The Smoke Of Autumn||1/27/2014|
|404.||Three Spring Notations On Bipeds||1/27/2014|
|411.||To A Contemporary Bunkshooter||1/13/2003|
|412.||To A Dead Man||1/13/2003|
|413.||To Beachey, 1912||1/13/2003|
|414.||To Certain Journeymen||1/13/2003|
|421.||Two Strangers Breakfast||1/27/2014|
|423.||Under A Hat Rim||1/13/2003|
|424.||Under A Telephone Pole||1/3/2003|
|425.||Under The Harvest Moon||1/3/2003|
|426.||Uplands In May||1/13/2003|
|431.||Village In Late Summer||1/27/2014|
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
I sat with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon eating steak and onions.
And he laughed and told stories of his wife and children and the cause of labor and the working class.
It was laughter of an unshakable man knowing life to be a rich and red-blooded thing.
Yes, his laugh rang like the call of gray birds filled with a glory of joy ramming their winged flight through a rain storm.
His name was in many newspapers as an enemy of the nation and few keepers of churches or schools woul