where the Lord isn't even a president, but a sort of composite of his own kin of earth folk and earth things. The salt oceans press in, and push on the coast lines. I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible. Can only add that. Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you, with a thousand memories, And asks you, beautiful, unanswerable questions. quot;s about Sandburg edit There is a growing tendency, as his fame goes up in the world, to speak of Carl Sandburg as a He man, an eater of raw meat, a hairy one. Sandburg in his poems uses neither metre nor rhyme, but if he gives an impression of ragged ease it is not much more than a surface impression. Marching single file the timber and the plain. He never wrote an American dictionary, but he does something more hazardous and exciting: he writes American.
Rivers cut a path on flat lands. I know the passionate seizure of beauty.
Who was Carl Sandburg?
Carl August Sandburg ( ) was an American poet, historian, novelist, balladeer and folklorist. The sun, the wind, bring rain. The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight, The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a coon in a treetop at midnight. I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say at sundown: To-morrow is a day. I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.