Carl Sandburg

(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967 / Illinois)

Carl Sandburg Poems

441. White Ash 1/27/2014
442. White Hands 1/27/2014
443. White Shoulders 1/3/2003
444. Whitelight 1/13/2003
445. Who Am I? 1/3/2003
446. Wilderness 1/27/2014
447. Wind Song 1/27/2014
448. Windflower Leaf 1/27/2014
449. Window 1/13/2003
450. Winter Milk 1/27/2014
451. Wistful 1/27/2014
452. Woman With A Past 4/2/2010
453. Women Washing Their Hair 4/2/2010
454. Work Gangs 4/2/2010
455. Working Girls 1/13/2003
456. Yes , The Dead Speak To Us 1/21/2014
457. Young Bullfrogs 4/2/2010
458. Young Sea 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Carl Sandburg

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Read the full of Fog

Silver Nails

A man was crucified. He came to the city a stranger,
was accused, and nailed to a cross. He lingered hanging.
Laughed at the crowd. "The nails are iron," he
said, "You are cheap. In my country when we crucify
we use silver nails. . ." So he went jeering. They
did not understand him at first. Later they talked about
him in changed voices in the saloons, bowling alleys, and
churches. It came over them every man is crucified
only once in his life and the law of humanity dictates

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