|Harriet Monroe, ed. (18601936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 191222.|
|By Carl Sandburg|
From Chicago Poems
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.)|
|Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild.|
|(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with their lovers.)|