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User Rating:
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6.6
/10
(108 votes)
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I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
Carl Sandburg
| Submitted Date |
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Saturday, January 04, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: beautiful, snow, woman, wind, mother, autumn, women
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Comments about this poem (Autumn Movement
by
Carl Sandburg
) |
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Claire Avaline (8/15/2008 10:47:00 AM)
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Dear Carl,
you amaze stun gratify and glorify. I thank God every day for your writing.
Did you want - seek - immortality?
Because you, along with the Beats, are most deserving.
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