I speak of new cities and new people. I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes. I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down, a sun dropped in the west. I tell you there is nothing in the world only an ocean of to-morrows, a sky of to-morrows. — Carl Sandburg, from… Continue reading Carl Sandburg
I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias And slid my fingers among topics and titles Looking for you. And the answer comes slow. There seems to be no answer. I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it. Or—the iceman with his… Continue reading Carl Sandburg
THE fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. — Carl Sandburg, “Fog,” Chicago Poems. (Dover Publications; Unabridged edition May 20, 1994) Originally published 1916.
I’m either going to be a writer or a bum. ― Carl Sandburg
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… Continue reading Carl Sandburg
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on. —Carl Sandburg, “Fog,” The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg (Harcourt Brace, 1970).
I have love And a child, A banjo And shadows. (Losses of God, All will go And one day We will hold Only the shadows.) — Carl Sandburg, “Losses,” Chicago Poems. (Dover Publications, 1994) Originally published 1916.