There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart, …
Carl Sandburg
Give me hunger, …
Bilbea, I was in Babylon on Saturday night. …
The boy Alexander understands his father to be a famous lawyer. …
I …
The buffaloes are gone. …
Hog Butcher for the World, …
THE single clenched fist lifted and ready, …
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin ... in the dust, in the cool tombs. …
An open door says, “Come in.” …
The fog comes …
Lincoln? …
Tomb of a millionaire, …
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. …
I HEARD a woman's lips …
How much do you love me, a million bushels? …
I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. …
Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air. …
In Abraham Lincoln’s city, …
THERE are no handles upon a language …
Desolate and lone …
Momus is the name men give your face, …
They made a myth of you, professor, …
He was born to wonder about numbers. …
The sea-wash never ends. …
The abracadabra boys—have they been in the stacks and cloisters? Have they picked up languages for throwing into chow mein poems? …
I have seen …
Passing through huddled and ugly walls, …
Be sad, be cool, be kind, …
I shall foot it …
The lean hands of wagon men …
I spot the hills …
OF my city the worst that men will ever say is this: …
My head knocks against the stars. …
There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. …