Carl Sandburg

(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967 / Illinois)

Carl Sandburg Poems

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


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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