Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day, and his hands were tougher than sole leather.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children and the woman died and the children grew up and went away and wrote the old man every two years.
He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun telling reminiscences to other old men whose women were dead and children scattered.
There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy on his face when he lived?he was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Mon 02.11.2008 at 17:53
I have love
And a child,
(Losses of God,
All will go
And one day
We will hold
Only the shadows.)
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Thu 01.31.2008 at 22:45
[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Thu 01.31.2008 at 00:53
I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Wed 01.23.2008 at 08:58
A stone face higher than six horses stood five thousand years gazing at the world seeming to clutch a secret.Read poem...
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Tue 01.01.2008 at 00:13
On Forty-first Street
near Eighth Avenue
a frame house wobbles.
If houses went on crutches
this house would be