I watched a terrific American Masters show about Carl Sandburg this weekend. Then I got a book of his poems from the library and stumbled across these two poems:
The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat.
It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
Is it a terrible thing to be lonely?
The prairie tells us nothing unless the rain is willing.
It is a woman with thoughts of her own.
Is it a terrible thing to love too much?
and this one:
Among the mountains I wandered and saw blue haze and red crag and was amazed;
On the beach where the long push under the endless tide maneuvers, I stood silent;
Under the stars on the prairie watching the Dipper slant over the horizon’s grass, I was full of thoughts.
Great men, pageants of war and labor, soldiers and workers, mothers lifting their children - these all I touched, and felt the solemn thrill of them.
And then one day I got a true look at the Poor, millions of the Poor, patient and toiling; more patient than crags, tides, and stars; innumerable, patient as the darkness of night- and all broken, humble ruins of nations.