A.E.F. Poem by Carl Sandburg

A.E.F.

Rating: 3.1


There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart,
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.
A spider will make a silver string nest in the
darkest, warmest corner of it.
The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty.
And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall.
Forefingers and thumbs will point casually toward it.
It will be spoken among half-forgotten, whished-to-be-forgotten things.
They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
unnamed 28 April 2019

American Expeditionary Force these are the american troops that joined the fighting at the end of the war

0 0 Reply
Travis Chichi 29 April 2013

What in the HECk does AEF stand for?

1 1 Reply
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