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Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Chicago Poems. 1916.

Index of First Lines

After the last red sunset glimmer
All day long in fog and wind
A lone gray bird
A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and cross-bones
A man was crucified. He came to the city a stranger
Among the mountains I wandered
Among the red guns
Among the shadows where two streets cross
A stone face higher than six horses stood five thousand years
Between two hills
Bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Lincoln Park, The
Brother, I am fire
By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and has a soul
Child’s wonder, The
Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years
Come to me only with playthings now
Come you, cartoonists
Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold
Cross the hands over the breast here—so
Dago shovelman sits by the railroad track, The
Desolate and lone
Down between the walls of shadow
Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas turn rust and go soon
Dreams in the dusk
Dust of the feet
Everybody loved Chick Lorimer in our town
Faces of two eternities keep looking at me
Fling your red scarf faster and faster, dancer
Fog comes, The
For the gladness here where the sun is shining
Give me hunger
Good-by now to the streets and the clash of wheels
Government—I heard about the Government, The
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
High noon. White sun flashes on the Michigan Avenue asphalt
Hog Butcher for the World
I am a copper wire slung in the air
I am glad God saw Death
I am riding on a limited express
I am singing to you
I am The Great White Way of the city
I am the mist, the impalpable mist
I am the nigger
I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass
I am the undertow
I asked a gypsy pal
I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life
I cannot tell you now
I drank musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club
I dreamed one man stood against a thousand
I have been watching the war map slammed up for advertising
I have love
I heard a woman’s lips
I know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street
I know an ice handler who wears a flannel shirt
I love your faces I saw the many years
In the old wars drum of hoofs and the beat of shod feet
In western fields of corn and northern timber lands
I remember once I ran after you
I sang to you and the moon
I sat with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon
I shall foot it
I shall never forget you, Broadway
I spot the hills
I waited today for a freight train to pass
I wanted a man’s face
I wish to God I never saw you, Mag
I wrote a poem on the mist
Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun
Legs hold a torso away from the earth
Let a joy keep you
Let us be honest; the lady was not a harlot
Little one, you have been buzzing in the books
Mamie beat her head against the bars of a little Indiana town
Many birds and the beating of wings
Memory of you is … a blue spear of flower
Momus is the name men give your face
Monotone of the rain is beautiful, The
Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street
My head knocks against the stars
Napoleon shifted
New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain
Night from a railroad car window
Now the stone house on the lake front is finished
Of my city the worst that men will ever say is this
Once when I saw a cripple
On the breakwater in the summer dark
On the street
Open the door now
Out of the fire
Over the dead line we have called to you
Owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo, The
Passing through huddled and ugly walls
Paula is digging and shaping the loam of a salvia
Red drips from my chin where I have been eating
Remembrance for a great man is this
Riding against the east
Sand of the sea runs red
Sea is never still, The
Seven nations stood with their hands on the jaws of death
Shadows of the ships, The
She loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in
She sits in the dust at the walls
Shine on, O moon of summer
Single clenched fist lifted and ready, The
Sling me under the sea
Smash down the cities
Storms have beaten on this point of land
Strolling along
Stuff of the moon
Style—go ahead talking about style
Sunday night and the park policemen tell each other
Take a hold now
Take your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this
There are no handles upon a language
There’s Chamfort. He’s a sample
They offer you many things
Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep
Today I will let the old boat stand
Tomb of a millionaire
Twenty men stand watching the muckers
Undertakers, hearse drivers, grave diggers
Under the harvest moon
What do we see here in the sand dunes of the white moon
While the hum and the hurry
Why shall I keep the old name?
Women of night life amid the lights
Wonder as of old things
Working girls in the morning are going to work, The
Yellow dust on a bumble
You came from the Aztecs
You come along … tearing your shirt … yelling about Jesus
You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb
You have spoken the answer
You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul
You never come back
Young child, Christ, is straight and wise, The
Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered
Your western heads here cast on money
Your white shoulders
Your whitelight flashes the frost to-night
You will come one day in a waver of love