Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Cornhuskers. 1918.
11. Blizzard Notes
I
And the snare drums—I know what they want—they are empty too.
And the harring booming bass drums—they are hungriest of all.
…
The howling spears of the Northwest die down.
The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.
A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.