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


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


I sat with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon eating steak and onions.
And he laughed and told stories of his wife and children and the cause of labor and the working class.
It was laughter of an unshakable man knowing life to be a rich and red-blooded thing.
Yes, his laugh rang like the call of gray birds filled with a glory of joy ramming their winged flight through a rain storm.
His name was in many newspapers as an enemy of the nation and few keepers of churches or schools woul

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