Carl Sandburg Poems
|441.||Hope Is A Tattered Flag||1/3/2003|
|442.||From The Shore||1/3/2003|
|443.||Aprons Of Silence||1/3/2003|
|446.||Between Two Hills||1/3/2003|
|449.||Among The Red Guns||1/3/2003|
|450.||A Father To His Son||4/2/2010|
|452.||All Day Long||1/3/2003|
|454.||At A Window||1/3/2003|
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
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