Carl Sandburg

The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city

What is the name you called me
— And why did you go so soon
The crows lift their caws on the wind,
And the wind changed and was lonely

Red drips from my chin where I have been eating
Not all the blood, nowhere near all, is wiped off my mouth
Clots of red mess my
And the tiger, the buffalo, know how

I was a boy when I heard three red words a thousand Frenchmen died in the streets for:
Liberty,
Equality,
Fraternity—I asked why men die for words

Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter's day, gray wind pattering frozen raindrops on the window,
And let us talk about milk wagon drivers and grocery delivery boys
Let us keep our feet in wool slippers and mix hot punches—and t...

I asked the mayor of Gary about the 12-hour day and the 7-day week
And the mayor of Gary answered more workmen steal time on the job in Gary than any other place in the United States
"Go into the plants and you will see men sitting ...

HE single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting
Choose: For we meet by one or the other
Composition date is unknown - the above date represents the first publication date
The lyrical form of th...

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

Your western heads here cast on money,
You are the two that fade away together,               Partners in the mist
Lunging buffalo shoulder,               Lean Indian face,
We who come after where you are

I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer and you a woman who loves the man who runs a drug store
I don't care like I used to;
I lay bricks straighter than I used to and I sing slower handling the trowel afternoons
...

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

Desolate and lone All night long on the lake Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly,
Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbor's breast And the harbor's eyes