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Poems List
Back Yard
Back Yard
Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month; to-night they are
throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back
yard.
The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking white thoughts
you rain down.
Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.
Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month; to-night they are
throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back
yard.
The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking white thoughts
you rain down.
Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.
👁️ 350
Baby Toes
Baby Toes
There is a blue star, Janet,
Fifteen years’ ride from us,
If we ride a hundred miles an hour.
There is a white star, Janet,
Forty years’ ride from us,
If we ride a hundred miles an hour.
Shall we ride
To the blue star
Or the white star?
There is a blue star, Janet,
Fifteen years’ ride from us,
If we ride a hundred miles an hour.
There is a white star, Janet,
Forty years’ ride from us,
If we ride a hundred miles an hour.
Shall we ride
To the blue star
Or the white star?
👁️ 473
Aztec Mask
Aztec Mask
I wanted a man’s face looking into the jaws and throat of life
With something proud on his face, so proud no smash of the jaws,
No gulp of the throat leaves the face in the end
With anything else than the old proud look:
Even to the finish, dumped in the dust,
Lost among the used-up cinders,
This face, men would say, is a flash,
Is laid on bones taken from the ribs of the earth,
Ready for the hammers of changing, changing years,
Ready for the sleeping, sleeping years of silence.
Ready for the dust and fire and wind.
I wanted this face and I saw it today in an Aztec mask.
A cry out of storm and dark, a red yell and a purple prayer,
A beaten shape of ashes
waiting the sunrise or night,
something or nothing,
proud-mouthed,
proud-eyed gambler.
I wanted a man’s face looking into the jaws and throat of life
With something proud on his face, so proud no smash of the jaws,
No gulp of the throat leaves the face in the end
With anything else than the old proud look:
Even to the finish, dumped in the dust,
Lost among the used-up cinders,
This face, men would say, is a flash,
Is laid on bones taken from the ribs of the earth,
Ready for the hammers of changing, changing years,
Ready for the sleeping, sleeping years of silence.
Ready for the dust and fire and wind.
I wanted this face and I saw it today in an Aztec mask.
A cry out of storm and dark, a red yell and a purple prayer,
A beaten shape of ashes
waiting the sunrise or night,
something or nothing,
proud-mouthed,
proud-eyed gambler.
👁️ 473
Autumn Movement
Autumn Movement
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
👁️ 379
Ashurnatsirpal III
Ashurnatsirpal III
Three walls around the town of Tela when I came.
They expected everything of those walls;
Nobody in the town came out to kiss my feet.
I knocked the walls down, killed three thousand soldiers,
Took away cattle and sheep, took all the loot in sight,
And burned special captives.
Some of the soldiers—I cut off hands and feet.
Others—I cut off ears and fingers.
Some—I put out the eyes.
I made a pyramid of heads.
I strung heads on trees circling the town.
When I got through with it
There wasn’t much left of the town of Tela.
Three walls around the town of Tela when I came.
They expected everything of those walls;
Nobody in the town came out to kiss my feet.
I knocked the walls down, killed three thousand soldiers,
Took away cattle and sheep, took all the loot in sight,
And burned special captives.
Some of the soldiers—I cut off hands and feet.
Others—I cut off ears and fingers.
Some—I put out the eyes.
I made a pyramid of heads.
I strung heads on trees circling the town.
When I got through with it
There wasn’t much left of the town of Tela.
👁️ 375
Aprons of Silence
Aprons of Silence
Many things I might have said today.
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things
Everybody was saying, no end
To the yes-yes, yes-yes,
me-too, me-too.
The aprons of silence covered me.
A wire and hatch held my tongue.
I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
I shut off the gable of Jones, Johnson, Smith,
All whose names take pages in the city directory.
I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
Knew it--on the streets, in the post office,
On the cars, into the railroad station
Where the caller was calling, "All a-board,
All a-board for . . . Blaa-blaa . . . Blaa-blaa,
Blaa-blaa . . . and all points northwest . . .all a-board."
Here I took along my own hoosegow
And did business with my own thoughts.
Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence.
Many things I might have said today.
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things
Everybody was saying, no end
To the yes-yes, yes-yes,
me-too, me-too.
The aprons of silence covered me.
A wire and hatch held my tongue.
I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
I shut off the gable of Jones, Johnson, Smith,
All whose names take pages in the city directory.
I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
Knew it--on the streets, in the post office,
On the cars, into the railroad station
Where the caller was calling, "All a-board,
All a-board for . . . Blaa-blaa . . . Blaa-blaa,
Blaa-blaa . . . and all points northwest . . .all a-board."
Here I took along my own hoosegow
And did business with my own thoughts.
Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence.
👁️ 390
And This Will Be All....
And This Will Be All....
And this will be all?
And the gates will never open again?
And the dust and the wind will play around the rusty door hinges and the songs of
October moan, Why-oh, why-oh?
And you will look to the mountains
And the mountains will look to you
And you will wish you were a mountain
And the mountain will wish nothing at all?
This will be all?
The gates will never-never open again?
The dust and the wind only
And the rusty door hinges and moaning October
And Why-oh, why-oh, in the moaning dry leaves,
This will be all?
Nothing in the air but songs
And no singers, no mouths to know the songs?
You tell us a woman with a heartache tells you it is so?
This will be all?
And this will be all?
And the gates will never open again?
And the dust and the wind will play around the rusty door hinges and the songs of
October moan, Why-oh, why-oh?
And you will look to the mountains
And the mountains will look to you
And you will wish you were a mountain
And the mountain will wish nothing at all?
This will be all?
The gates will never-never open again?
The dust and the wind only
And the rusty door hinges and moaning October
And Why-oh, why-oh, in the moaning dry leaves,
This will be all?
Nothing in the air but songs
And no singers, no mouths to know the songs?
You tell us a woman with a heartache tells you it is so?
This will be all?
👁️ 364
An Electric Sign Goes Dark
An Electric Sign Goes Dark
Poland, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle’s cork.
“Won’t you come and play wiz me” she sang … and “I just can’t make my eyes
behave.”
“Higgeldy-Piggeldy,” “Papa’s Wife,” “Follow Me” were plays.
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk?
The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
Twenty years old … thirty … forty …
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver
tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter,
a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths
in France.
A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw … legs, torso, head … on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for
packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and
shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine
and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern
cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
Poland, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle’s cork.
“Won’t you come and play wiz me” she sang … and “I just can’t make my eyes
behave.”
“Higgeldy-Piggeldy,” “Papa’s Wife,” “Follow Me” were plays.
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk?
The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
Twenty years old … thirty … forty …
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver
tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter,
a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths
in France.
A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw … legs, torso, head … on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for
packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and
shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine
and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern
cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
👁️ 346
Always The Mob
Always The Mob
Jesus emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a
high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the
dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred
cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat
guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to
its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of
one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of
marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons
have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling
mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast
line from Labrador to Key West? Pig iron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off
Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and
bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples.
Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat,
watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening…
The mob … kills or builds … the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon,
Lincoln.
I am born in the mob—I die in the mob—the same goes for you—I don’t care who you
are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man’s land for you, my brother—I slip a steel tooth into
your throat, you my brother—I die for you and I kill you—It is a twisted and gnarled
thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
Jesus emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a
high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the
dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred
cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat
guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to
its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of
one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of
marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons
have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling
mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast
line from Labrador to Key West? Pig iron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off
Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and
bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples.
Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat,
watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening…
The mob … kills or builds … the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon,
Lincoln.
I am born in the mob—I die in the mob—the same goes for you—I don’t care who you
are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man’s land for you, my brother—I slip a steel tooth into
your throat, you my brother—I die for you and I kill you—It is a twisted and gnarled
thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
👁️ 360
All Day Long
All Day Long
All day long in fog and wind,
The waves have flung their beating crests
Against the palisades of adamant.
My boy, he went to sea, long and long ago,
Curls of brown were slipping underneath his cap,
He looked at me from blue and steely eyes;
Natty, straight and true, he stepped away,
My boy, he went to sea.
All day long in fog and wind,
The waves have flung their beating crests
Against the palisades of adamant.
All day long in fog and wind,
The waves have flung their beating crests
Against the palisades of adamant.
My boy, he went to sea, long and long ago,
Curls of brown were slipping underneath his cap,
He looked at me from blue and steely eyes;
Natty, straight and true, he stepped away,
My boy, he went to sea.
All day long in fog and wind,
The waves have flung their beating crests
Against the palisades of adamant.
👁️ 381
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Poet Carl Sandburg interview (1956)
Carl Sandburg "Recites His Civil War Address" on The Ed Sullivan Show
Marie Foolchand: “I am the People, the Mob” by Carl Sandburg
" FOG" by Carl Sandburg | Poetry Reading
The Day Carl Sandburg Died - American Masters
CHICAGO by Carl Sandburg - FULL Poem | Greatest AudioBooks
Happiness by Carl Sandburg | a poetry film
Carl Sandburg sings "The Hearse Song"
Carl Sandburg sings "Red River Valley"
Carl Sandburg Home | NC Weekend
Pulitzer Winner Carl Sandburg on His Writing Process and His Biography of Abraham Lincoln
Carl Sandburg – Sings His American Songbag
CARL SANDBURG reads "Grass"
Kyla Kane: "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg
Carl Sandburg: His Life, His Poetry, His Cause
Carl Sandburg sings "If I Die a Railroad Man"
Carl Sandburg's Connemara
Poetry: "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg (read by Gary Sinise)
Carl Sandburg on Abraham Lincoln at Joint Session of Congress 1959
What's My Line? - Carl Sandburg; Milton Berle; Nick Adams [panel] (Sep 11, 1960)
Carl Sandburg sings " Wanderin' "
Meet Carl Sandburg - Poet - Folk Singer - Author - Historian - Biography in Sound
Carl Sandburg College women's basketball vs. Black Hawk
Man Born in 1878 Talks About Politics in 1884
Carl Sandburg College men's basketball vs. Black Hawk
Carl Sandburg Home - Flat Rock, North Carolina
Under the Harvest Moon by Carl Sandburg | a poetry film
Carl Sandburg sings "My Name Is Yon Yonson"
Carl Sandburg sings "The Horse Named Bill"
Carl Sandburg Reads Poetry For Children, 1959
Carl Sandburg sings "I Ride an Old Paint"
Carl Sandburg-How To Tell Corn Fairies When You See Them
WILDERNESS by Carl Sandburg, read by Mike Clelland
I am the people,the mob|English poetry recitation|Carl Sandburg poems
Poetry Out Loud - "I Am The People, The Mob" by Carl Sandburg
Carl Sandburg College women's basketball vs. Kishwaukee
Come On! Feel the Illinoise! Part I: The World's Columbian Exposition Part II: Carl Sandburg...
Carl Sandburg College women's basketball vs. John Wood
"Fog" Carl Sandburg poem CARL SANDBURG RECITES (poetry is like music--listen for musical effects)
Carl Sandburg College men's basketball vs. John Wood
A Brief Introduction to Carl Sandburg and a Reading and Analysis of His Poem, The Grass
Poetry recitation "Chicago by Carl Sandburg"
Carl Sandburg's "Fog"
Theme in Yellow by Carl Sandburg (Graveyard Poetry)
Estera Musiala: "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg
Carl Sandburg's Poem 'Happiness' / in Tamil / UG TRB / Bharath Ravindran / Bharath Academy
Carl Sandburg "The People Yes" Poem animation
Carl Sandburg College men's basketball vs. Kishwaukee
Sketch by Carl Sandburg
At A Window (Carl Sandburg)
Carl Sandburg (January 6, 1878 – July 22, 1967)
Carl Sandburg was an American writer and editor, best known for his poetry.
He won three Pulitzer Prizes, two for his poetry and another for a biography
of Abraham Lincoln. H. L. Mencken called Carl Sandburg "indubitably an American in
every pulse-beat."
Biography
Sandburg was born in Galesburg, Illinois, to parents of Swedish ancestry. At
the age of thirteen (During Eighth grade) he left school and began driving a
milk wagon. From the age of about fourteen until he was seventeen or
eighteen, he worked as a porter at the Union Hotel barbershop in Galesburg.
After that he was on the milk route again for 18 months. He then became a
bricklayer and a farm laborer on the wheat plains of Kansas. After an interval
spent at Lombard College in Galesburg, he became a hotel servant in
Denver, then a coal-heaver in Omaha. He began his writing career as a
journalist for the Chicago Daily News. Later he wrote poetry, history,
biographies, novels, children's literature, and film reviews. Sandburg also
collected and edited books of ballads and folklore. He spent most of his life in
the Midwest before moving to North Carolina.
Sandburg volunteered to go to the military and was stationed in Puerto Rico
with the 6th Illinois Infantry during the Spanish–American War, disembarking
at Guánica, Puerto Rico on July 25, 1898. Sandburg was never actually called
to battle. He attended West Point for just two weeks, before failing a
mathematics and grammar exam. Sandburg returned to Galesburg and
entered Lombard College, but left without a degree in 1903.
He moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and joined the Social Democratic Party,
the name by which the Socialist Party of America was known in the state.
Sandburg served as a secretary to Emil Seidel, socialist mayor of Milwaukee
from 1910 to 1912.
Sandburg met Lilian Steichen at the Social Democratic Party office in 1907,
and they married the next year. Lilian's brother was the photographer
Edward Steichen. Sandburg with his wife, whom he called Paula, raised three
daughters.
Sandburg moved to Harbert, Michigan, and then suburban Chicago, Illinois.
They lived in Evanston, Illinois, before settling at 331 S. York Street in
Elmhurst, Illinois, from 1919 to 1930. Sandburg wrote three children's books
in Elmhurst, Rootabaga Stories, in 1922, followed by Rootabaga Pigeons
(1923), and Potato Face (1930). Sandburg also wrote Abraham Lincoln: The
Prairie Years, a two volume biography in 1926, The American Songbag
(1927), and a book of poems Good Morning, America (1928) in Elmhurst.
The family moved to Michigan in 1930. The Sandburg house at 331 W. York
Street, Elmhurst was demolished and the site is now a parking lot. The War
Years, for which he won the Pulitzer Prize in 1940. Sandburg's Complete
Poems won him a second Pulitzer Prize in 1951.
He moved to a Flat Rock, North Carolina estate, Connemara, in 1945 and
lived there until his death in 1967.
Sandburg supported the civil rights movement, and contributed to the
NAACP.
Works
Carl Sandburg rented a room in this house where he lived for three years
while he wrote the poem "Chicago". It's now a Chicago landmark. Much of
Carl Sandburg's poetry, such as "Chicago", focused on Chicago, Illinois,
where he spent time as a reporter for the Chicago Daily News and the Day
Book. His most famous description of the city is as "Hog Butcher for the
World/Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat/Player with Railroads and the Nation's
Freight Handler,/Stormy, Husky, Brawling, City of the Big Shoulders."
Sandburg is also remembered by generations of children for his Rootabaga
Stories and Rootabaga Pigeons, a series of whimsical, sometimes melancholy
stories he originally created for his own daughters. The Rootabaga Stories
were born of Sandburg's desire for "American fairy tales" to match American
childhood. He felt that the European stories involving royalty and knights
were inappropriate, and so populated his stories with skyscrapers, trains,
corn fairies and the "Five Marvelous Pretzels".
Sandburg earned Pulitzer Prizes for his collection The Complete Poems of
Carl Sandburg, Corn Huskers, and for his biography of Abraham Lincoln
(Abraham Lincoln: The War Years). He recorded excerpts from the
biography and some of Lincoln's speeches for Caedmon Records in New York
City in May 1957. He was awarded a Grammy Award in 1959 for Best
Performance – Documentary Or Spoken Word (Other Than Comedy) for his
recording of Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait with the New York Philharmonic.
Legacy
Carl Sandburg's boyhood home in Galesburg is now operated by the Illinois
Historic Preservation Agency as the Carl Sandburg State Historic Site. The
site contains the cottage Sandburg was born in, a modern visitor's center,
and small garden with a large stone called Remembrance Rock, under which
he and his wife Lilian's ashes are buried. Sandburg's home of 22 years in Flat
Rock, Henderson County, North Carolina, is preserved by the National Park
Service as the Carl Sandburg Home National Historic Site. Carl Sandburg
College is located in Sandburg's birthplace of Galesburg, Illinois.
Carl Sandburg Village was a Chicago urban renewal project of the 1960s
located in the Near North Side, Chicago. Financed by the city, it is located
between Clark and LaSalle St. between Division Street and North Ave.
Solomon & Cordwell, architects. In 1979, Carl Sandburg Village was
converted to condominium ownership.
Elmhurst, Illinois, renamed the former Elmhurst Junior High School as 'Carl
Sandburg Middle School,' in his honor in 1960. Sandburg spoke at the
dedication ceremony. He resided at 331 S. York Street in Elmhurst from
1919 to 1930. The house was demolished and the site is a parking lot. In
1954, Carl Sandburg High School was dedicated in Orland Park, Illinois. Mr.
Sandburg was in attendance, and stretched what was supposed to be a one
hour event into several hours, regaling students with songs and stories.
Years later, he returned to the school with no identification and, appearing to
be a hobo, was thrown out by the principal. When he later returned with
I.D., the embarrassed principal canceled the rest of the school day and held
an assembly to honor the visit. In 1959, Carl Sandburg Junior High School
was opened in Golden Valley, Minnesota. Carl Sandburg attended the
dedication of the school. In 1988 the name was changed to Sandburg Middle
School servicing grades 6, 7, and 8. Originally built with a capacity for 1,800
students the school now has 1,100 students enrolled. Sandburg Middle
school was one of the first schools in the state of Minnesota to offer
accelerated learning programs for gifted students. In December 1961, Carl
Sandburg Elementary School was dedicated in San Bruno, California. Again,
Sandburg came for the ceremonies and was clearly impressed with the faces
of the young children, who gathered around him. The school was closed in
the 1980s, due to falling enrollments in the San Bruno Park School District.
In Neshaminy School District of lower Bucks County resides the secondary
institution Carl Sandburg Middle School. Located in the lobby is a finished
split tree trunk with the quote engraved lengthwise horizontally: "Man is
born with rainbows in his heart and you'll never read him unless you consider
rainbows". Another secondary school by the same name is located south of
Alexandria, Virginia, and is part of the Fairfax County Public Schools School
District. Sandburg Halls is a student residence hall at the University of
Wisconsin–Milwaukee. The building consists of 4 high rise towers with a total
housing capacity of 2,700 students. It has an exterior plaque on Sandburg's
roles as an organizer for the Social Democratic Party and as personal
secretary to Emil Seidel, Milwaukee's first Socialist mayor. There are several
other schools named after Sandburg in Illinois, including those in Wheaton,
Orland Park, Springfield, Mundelein, and Joliet.
Eserleri:
In Reckless Ecstasy (1904)
Abe Lincoln Grows Up (N/A)
Incidentals (1904)
Plaint of a Rose (1908)
Joseffy (1910)
You and Your Job (1910)
Chicago Poems (1916)
Cornhuskers (1918)
Chicago Race Riots (1919)
Clarence Darrow of Chicago (1919)
Smoke and Steel (1920)
Rootabaga Stories (1922)
Slabs of the Sunburnt West (1922)
Rootabaga Pigeons (1923)
Selected Poems (1926)
Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years (1926)
The American Songbag (1927)
Songs of America (1927)
Abe Lincoln Grows Up (1928)
Good Morning, America (1928)
Steichen the Photographer (1929)
Early Moon (1930)
Potato Face (1930)
Mary Lincoln: Wife and Widow (1932)
The People, Yes (1936)
Abraham Lincoln: The War Years (1939)
Storm over the Land (1942)
Road to Victory (1942)
Home Front Memo (1943)
Remembrance Rock (1948)
Lincoln Collector: the story of the Oliver R. Barrett Lincoln collection (1949)
The New American Songbag (1950)
Complete Poems (1950)
The wedding procession of the rag doll and the broom handle and who was in
it (1950)
Always the Young Strangers (1953)
Selected poems of Carl Sandburg (1954)
The Family of Man (1955)
Prairie-town boy (1955)
Sandburg Range (1957)
Harvest Poems, 1910–1960 (1960)
Wind Song (1960)
Honey and Salt (1963)
The Letters of Carl Sandburg (1968)
Breathing Tokens (poetry by Sandburg, edited by Margaret Sandburg)
(1978)
Ever the Winds of Chance (1983)
Carl Sandburg at the movies : a poet in the silent era, 1920–1927 (1985)
Billy Sunday and other poems (1993)
Poems for children nowhere near old enough to vote (1999)
Abraham Lincoln : the prairie years and the war years (2007)