PALS
TAKE a hold now / On the silver handles here,
TO A DEAD MAN
❦
OVER the dead line we have called to you
To come across with a word to us,
Some beaten whisper of what happens
Where you are over the dead line
Deaf to our calls and voiceless.
The flickering shadows have not answered
Nor your lips sent a signal
Whether love talks and roses grow
And the sun breaks at morning
Splattering the sea with crimson.
More poems by Carl Sandburg
SHEEP
Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep-- / one by one going up the hill and over the fence--one by
AMONG THE RED GUNS
After waking at dawn one morning when the wind sang / low among dry leaves in an elm
THE HARBOR
PASSING through huddled and ugly walls / By doorways where women