Love poems

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Chamfort

© Carl Sandburg

THERE'S Chamfort. He's a sample.
Locked himself in his library with a gun,
Shot off his nose and shot out his right eye.
And this Chamfort knew how to write

COUNT these reminiscences like money.
The Greeks had their picnics under another name.
The Romans wore glad rags and told their neighbors, What of it?
The Carlovingians hauling logs on carts, they too

Buffalo Bill

© Carl Sandburg

BOY heart of Johnny Jonesaching to-day?
Aching, and Buffalo Bill in town?
Buffalo Bill and ponies, cowboys, Indians?

Brass Keys

© Carl Sandburg

JOY weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.

are we near or far? is there anything else? who comes back? and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes?

At a Window

© Carl Sandburg

Give me hunger,
O you gods that sit and give
The world its orders.
Give me hunger, pain and want,

An Electric Sign Goes Dark

© Carl Sandburg

POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottles cork.

Wont you come and play wiz me she sang and I just cant make my eyes behave.

Wilderness

© Carl Sandburg

THERE is a wolf in me fangs pointed for tearing gashes a red tongue for raw meat and the hot lapping of bloodI keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me a silver-gray fox I sniff and guess I pick things out of the wind and air I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers I circle and loop and double-cross.

Whitelight

© Carl Sandburg

YOUR whitelight flashes the frost to-night
Moon of the purple and silent west.
Remember me one of your lovers of dreams.

Under the Harvest Moon

© Carl Sandburg

Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,

Under A Telephone Pole

© Carl Sandburg

I AM a copper wire slung in the air,
Slim against the sun I make not even a clear line of shadow.
Night and day I keep singing--humming and thrumming:
It is love and war and money; it is the fighting and the

To a Dead Man

© Carl Sandburg

Over the dead line we have called to you
To come across with a word to us,
Some beaten whisper of what happens
Where you are over the dead line
Deaf to our calls and voiceless.

Testimony Regarding a Ghost

© Carl Sandburg

THE ROSES slanted crimson sobs
On the night sky hair of the women,
And the long light-fingered men
Spoke to the dark-haired women,

Still Life

© Carl Sandburg

COOL your heels on the rail of an observation car.
Let the engineer open her up for ninety miles an hour.
Take in the prairie right and left, rolling land and new hay crops, swaths of new hay laid in the sun.
A gray village flecks by and the horses hitched in front of the post-office never blink an eye.
A barnyard and fifteen Holstein cows, dabs of white on a black wall map, never blink an eye.
A signalman in a tower, the outpost of Kansas City, keeps his place at a window with the serenity of a bronze statue on a dark night when lovers pass whispering.

Sandhill People

© Carl Sandburg

I TOOK away three pictures.
One was a white gull forming a half-mile arch from the pines toward Waukegan.
One was a whistle in the little sandhills, a bird crying either to the sunset gone or the dusk come.
One was three spotted waterbirds, zigzagging, cutting scrolls and jags, writing a bird Sanscrit of wing points, half over the sand, half over the water, a half-love for the sea, a half-love for the land.

Salvage

GUNS on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical

Red-headed Restaurant Cashier

SHAKE back your hair, O red-headed girl.
Let go your laughter and keep your two proud freckles on your chin.
Somewhere is a man looking for a red-headed girl and some day maybe he will look into your eyes for a restaurant cashier and find a lover, maybe.
Around and around go ten thousand men hunting a red headed girl with two freckles on her chin.
I have seen them hunting, hunting.
Shake back your hair; let go your laughter.

Nights Nothings Again

WHO knows what I know
when I have asked the night questions
and the night has answered nothing
only the old answers?

Mag

I WISH to God I never saw you, Mag.
I wish you never quit your job and came along with me.
I wish we never bought a license and a white dress
For you to get married in the day we ran off to a minister

Kreisler

SELL me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood.
Sell me a fiddle that has kissed dark nights on the forehead where men kiss sisters they love.
Sell me dried wood that has ached with passion clutching the knees and arms of a storm.
Sell me horsehair and rosin that has sucked at the breasts of the morning sun for milk.
Sell me something crushed in the heartsblood of pain readier than ever for one more song.

Jan Kubelik

YOUR bow swept over a string, and a long low note
quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect
learning to suck milk.)