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Best Famous Carl Sandburg Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Carl Sandburg poems. This is a select list of the best famous Carl Sandburg poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Carl Sandburg poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Carl Sandburg poems.

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Written by Carl Sandburg |

Under the Harvest Moon

 Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses When the flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 I ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Three Pieces on the Smoke of Autumn

 SMOKE of autumn is on it all.
The streamers loosen and travel.
The red west is stopped with a gray haze.
They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks, They make a long-tailed rider In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.
Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River.
There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west.
Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold.
(A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance man in France and an I.
man in Vladivostok.
) I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glow, and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a sheet of river gold.
Better the blue silence and the gray west, The autumn mist on the river, And not any hate and not any love, And not anything at all of the keen and the deep: Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor, And the new corn shoveled in bushels And the pumpkins brought from the corn rows, Umber lights of the dark, Umber lanterns of the loam dark.
Here a dog head dreams.
Not any hate, not any love.
Not anything but dreams.
Brother of dusk and umber.

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Written by Carl Sandburg |

Theme In Yellow

 I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Corn Hut Talk

 WRITE your wishes
 on the door
 and come in.
Stand outside in the pools of the harvest moon.
Bring in the handshake of the pumpkins.
There’s a wish for every hazel nut? There’s a hope for every corn shock? There’s a kiss for every clumsy climbing shadow? Clover and the bumblebees once, high winds and November rain now.
Buy shoes for rough weather in November.
Buy shirts to sleep outdoors when May comes.
Buy me something useless to remember you by.
Send me a sumach leaf from an Illinois hill.
In the faces marching in the firelog flickers, In the fire music of wood singing to winter, Make my face march through the purple and ashes.
Make me one of the fire singers to winter.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 THE HORSE’S name was Remorse.
There were people said, “Gee, what a nag!” And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so They called him Remorse.
When he was a gelding He flashed his heels to other ponies And threw dust in the noses of other ponies And won his first race and his second And another and another and hardly ever Came under the wire behind the other runners.
And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.
What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
Nick me with any old name.
Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
Only … slam me across the ears sometimes … and hunt for a white star In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
Make a wish for me.
Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Death Snips Proud Men

 DEATH is stronger than all the governments because the governments are men and men die and then death laughs: Now you see ’em, now you don’t.
Death is stronger than all proud men and so death snips proud men on the nose, throws a pair of dice and says: Read ’em and weep.
Death sends a radiogram every day: When I want you I’ll drop in—and then one day he comes with a master-key and lets himself in and says: We’ll go now.
Death is a nurse mother with big arms: ’Twon’t hurt you at all; it’s your time now; you just need a long sleep, child; what have you had anyhow better than sleep?

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Accomplished Facts

 EVERY year Emily Dickinson sent one friend
the first arbutus bud in her garden.
In a last will and testament Andrew Jackson remembered a friend with the gift of George Washington’s pocket spy-glass.
Napoleon too, in a last testament, mentioned a silver watch taken from the bedroom of Frederick the Great, and passed along this trophy to a particular friend.
Henry took a blood carnation from his coat lapel and handed it to a country girl starting work in a bean bazaar, and scribbled: “Peach blossoms may or may not stay pink in city dust.
” So it goes.
Some things we buy, some not.
Tom Jefferson was proud of his radishes, and Abe Lincoln blacked his own boots, and Bismarck called Berlin a wilderness of brick and newspapers.
So it goes.
There are accomplished facts.
Ride, ride, ride on in the great new blimps— Cross unheard-of oceans, circle the planet.
When you come back we may sit by five hollyhocks.
We might listen to boys fighting for marbles.
The grasshopper will look good to us.
So it goes …

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 They offer you many things,
I a few.
Moonlight on the play of fountains at night With water sparkling a drowsy monotone, Bare-shouldered, smiling women and talk And a cross-play of loves and adulteries And a fear of death and a remembering of regrets: All this they offer you.
I come with: salt and bread a terrible job of work and tireless war; Come and have now: hunger.
danger and hate.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Night Movement—New York

 IN the night, when the sea-winds take the city in their arms,
And cool the loud streets that kept their dust noon and afternoon;
In the night, when the sea-birds call to the lights of the city,
The lights that cut on the skyline their name of a city;
In the night, when the trains and wagons start from a long way off
For the city where the people ask bread and want letters;
In the night the city lives too—the day is not all.
In the night there are dancers dancing and singers singing, And the sailors and soldiers look for numbers on doors.
In the night the sea-winds take the city in their arms.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

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.

Written by Carl Sandburg |


 ROSES and gold
For you today,
And the flash of flying flags.
I will have Ashes, Dust in my hair, Crushes of hoofs.
Your name Fills the mouth Of rich man and poor.
Women bring Armfuls of flowers And throw on you.
I go hungry Down in dreams And loneliness, Across the rain To slashed hills Where men wait and hope for me.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Sixteen Months

 ON the lips of the child Janet float changing dreams.
It is a thin spiral of blue smoke, A morning campfire at a mountain lake.
On the lips of the child Janet, Wisps of haze on ten miles of corn, Young light blue calls to young light gold of morning.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

Baby Face

 WHITE MOON comes in on a baby face.
The shafts across her bed are flimmering.
Out on the land White Moon shines, Shines and glimmers against gnarled shadows, All silver to slow twisted shadows Falling across the long road that runs from the house.
Keep a little of your beauty And some of your flimmering silver For her by the window to-night Where you come in, White Moon.

Written by Carl Sandburg |

I Am The People The Mob

 I AM the people--the mob--the crowd--the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world's food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history.
The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns.
They die.
And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground.
I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing.
Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget.
The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
I forget.
Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have.
And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember.
Then--I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool--then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: "The People," with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob--the crowd--the mass--will arrive then.