PALS
TAKE a hold now / On the silver handles here,
OLD WOMAN
❦
THE owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo
From building and battered paving-stone.
The headlight scoffs at the mist,
And fixes its yellow rays in the cold slow rain;
Against a pane I press my forehead
And drowsily look on the walls and sidewalks.
The headlight finds the way
And life is gone from the wet and the welter--
Only an old woman, bloated, disheveled and bleared.
Far-wandered waif of other days,
Huddles for sleep in a doorway,
Homeless.
More poems by Carl Sandburg
PLOWBOY
AFTER the last red sunset glimmer, / Black on the line of a low hill rise,
SHEEP
Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep-- / one by one going up the hill and over the fence--one by
WHO AM I
MY head knocks against the stars. / My feet are on the hilltops.