Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Chicago Poems. 1916.

Index of First Lines

After the last red sunset glimmer

All day long in fog and wind

A lone gray bird

A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and cross-bones

A man was crucified. He came to the city a stranger

Among the mountains I wandered

Among the red guns

Among the shadows where two streets cross

A stone face higher than six horses stood five thousand years

Between two hills

Bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Lincoln Park, The

Brother, I am fire

By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and has a soul

Child’s wonder, The

Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years

Come to me only with playthings now

Come you, cartoonists

Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold

Cross the hands over the breast here—so

Dago shovelman sits by the railroad track, The

Desolate and lone

Down between the walls of shadow

Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas turn rust and go soon

Dreams in the dusk

Dust of the feet

Everybody loved Chick Lorimer in our town

Faces of two eternities keep looking at me

Fling your red scarf faster and faster, dancer

Fog comes, The

For the gladness here where the sun is shining

Give me hunger

Good-by now to the streets and the clash of wheels

Government—I heard about the Government, The

Guns

Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year

High noon. White sun flashes on the Michigan Avenue asphalt

Hog Butcher for the World

I am a copper wire slung in the air

I am glad God saw Death

I am riding on a limited express

I am singing to you

I am The Great White Way of the city

I am the mist, the impalpable mist

I am the nigger

I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass

I am the undertow

I asked a gypsy pal

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life

I cannot tell you now

I drank musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club

I dreamed one man stood against a thousand

I have been watching the war map slammed up for advertising

I have love

I heard a woman’s lips

I know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street

I know an ice handler who wears a flannel shirt

I love your faces I saw the many years

In the old wars drum of hoofs and the beat of shod feet

In western fields of corn and northern timber lands

I remember once I ran after you

I sang to you and the moon

I sat with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon

I shall foot it

I shall never forget you, Broadway

I spot the hills

I waited today for a freight train to pass

I wanted a man’s face

I wish to God I never saw you, Mag

I wrote a poem on the mist

Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun

Legs hold a torso away from the earth

Let a joy keep you

Let us be honest; the lady was not a harlot

Little one, you have been buzzing in the books

Mamie beat her head against the bars of a little Indiana town

Many birds and the beating of wings

Memory of you is … a blue spear of flower

Momus is the name men give your face

Monotone of the rain is beautiful, The

Mrs. Gabrielle Giovannitti comes along Peoria Street

My head knocks against the stars

Napoleon shifted

New-mown hay smell and wind of the plain

Night from a railroad car window

Now the stone house on the lake front is finished

Of my city the worst that men will ever say is this

Once when I saw a cripple

On the breakwater in the summer dark

On the street

Open the door now

Out of the fire

Over the dead line we have called to you

Owl-car clatters along, dogged by the echo, The

Passers-by

Passing through huddled and ugly walls

Paula is digging and shaping the loam of a salvia

Red drips from my chin where I have been eating

Remembrance for a great man is this

Riding against the east

Sand of the sea runs red

Sea is never still, The

Seven nations stood with their hands on the jaws of death

Shadows of the ships, The

Shaken

She loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in

She sits in the dust at the walls

Shine on, O moon of summer

Single clenched fist lifted and ready, The

Sling me under the sea

Smash down the cities

Storms have beaten on this point of land

Strolling along

Stuff of the moon

Style—go ahead talking about style

Sunday night and the park policemen tell each other

Take a hold now

Take your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow

Ten minutes now I have been looking at this

There are no handles upon a language

There’s Chamfort. He’s a sample

They offer you many things

Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep

Today I will let the old boat stand

Tomb of a millionaire

Twenty men stand watching the muckers

Undertakers, hearse drivers, grave diggers

Under the harvest moon

What do we see here in the sand dunes of the white moon

While the hum and the hurry

Why shall I keep the old name?

Women of night life amid the lights

Wonder as of old things

Working girls in the morning are going to work, The

Yellow dust on a bumble

You came from the Aztecs

You come along … tearing your shirt … yelling about Jesus

You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb

You have spoken the answer

You gave us the bumble bee who has a soul

You never come back

Young child, Christ, is straight and wise, The

Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered

Your western heads here cast on money

Your white shoulders

Your whitelight flashes the frost to-night

You will come one day in a waver of love

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