written by Carl SandburgShe sits in the dust at the walls
And makes cigars,
Bending at the bench
With fingers wage-anxious,
Changing her sweat for the day's pay.
Now the noon hour has come,
And she leans with her bare arms
On the window-sill over the river,
Leans and feels at her throat
Cool-moving things out of the free open ways:
At her throat and eyes and nostrils
The touch and the blowing cool
Of great free ways beyond the walls.
Carl Sandburg
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Mon 04.02.2007 at 08:26
She sits in the dust at the walls
And makes cigars,
Bending at the bench
With fingers wage-anxious,
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Mon 04.02.2007 at 04:10
Take a hold now
On the silver handles here,
Six silver handles,
One for each of his old pals.
Take hold
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Mon 03.26.2007 at 15:15
I
A storm of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.
II
Red roses running upward,
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Sat 03.10.2007 at 02:12
Your eyes and the valley are memories.
Your eyes fire and the valley a bowl.
It was here a moonrise crept over the timberline.
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Fri 03.09.2007 at 16:42
The single clenched fist lifted and ready,
Or the open asking hand held out and waiting.
Choose:
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Mon 02.26.2007 at 23:24
There are no handles upon a language
Whereby men take hold of it
And mark it with signs for its remembrance.