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Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Cornhuskers. 1918.

Index of First Lines

A forefinger of stone, dreamed by a sculptor, points to the sky
A goldwing moth is between the scissors and the ink bottle
A million young workmen straight and strong lay stiff
Among the bumble-bees in red-top hay
A storm of white petals
Baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, The
Band concert public square Nebraska city
Bees and a honeycomb in the dried head of a horse
Bilbea, I was in Babylon on Saturday night
Blossoms of babies
Body of Jesus taken down from the cross
Boy heart of Johnny Jones—aching to-day?
Brass medallion profile of your face I keep always, The
Bury this old Illinois farmer with respect
Chatter of birds two by two raises a night song
Chick in the egg picks at the shell, The
Child Margaret begins to write numbers, The
Cool your heels on the rail of an observation car
Cover me over
Days of the dead men, Danny
Empty battlefields keep their phantoms
Five circus clowns dying this year
Flanders, the name of a place, a country of people
Flat lands on the end of town where real estate men
For a woman’s face remembered as a spot of quick light
Gold of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon
Have I told any man to be a liar for my sake?
Have me in the blue and the sun
He lived on the wings of storm
Here in a cage the dollars come down
Here is a face that says half-past seven
How many feet ran with sunlight, water, and air?
Huntington sleeps in a house six feet long
I am an ancient reluctant conscript
I am making a Cartoon of a Woman. She is the People
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts
I don’t blame the kettle drums—they are hungry
If I had a million lives to live
I give the undertakers permission to haul my body
I have kept all, not one is thrown away
In Abraham Lincoln’s city
In the cool of the night time
In the loam we sleep
In the newspaper office—who are the spooks?
In the Shenandoah Valley, one rider gray and one rider blue
Into the blue river hills
Into the gulf and the pit of the dark night
I remember here by the fire
I remember the Chillicothe ball players
I rise out of my depths with my language
I saluted a nobody
I saw a mouth jeering. A smile of melted red iron ran over it
I sit in a chair and read the newspapers
I thought of killing myself because I am only a bricklayer
I too have a garret of old playthings
It’s a lean car … a long-legged dog of a car
It’s going to come out all right—do you know?
I was born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat
Jabowsky’s place is on a side street
Jesus emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs
Jimmy Wimbleton listened a first week in June
John Brown’s body under the morning stars
Last night a January wind was ripping at the shingles
Lay me on an anvil, O God
Leaves of poplars pick Japanese prints against the west
Let me be monosyllabic to-day, O Lord
Let the crows go by hawking their caw and caw
Let us sit by a hissing steam radiator a winter’s day
Lips half-willing in a doorway
Make war songs out of these
Mare Alix breaks the world’s trotting record one day, The
Mouth of this man is a gaunt strong mouth, The
Nancy Hanks dreams by the fire
Now that a crimson rambler
On the lips of the child Janet float changing dreams
On the one hand the steel works
Out of white lips a question: Shall seven million dead ask
Papa Joffre, the shoulders of him wide as the land of France
Pawn-shop man knows hunger, The
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo
Policeman buys shoes slow and careful, The
Rum tiddy um
Sea is large, The
Sell me a violin, mister, of old mysterious wood
Smoke of autumn is on it all
Summer shirt sale of a downtown haberdasher is glorified, The
There are places I go when I am strong
There is a wolf in me … fangs pointed for tearing gashes
There was a high majestic fooling
They are crying salt tears
They have taken the ball of earth
Thin sheets of blue smoke among white slabs
Thirty-two Greeks are dipping their feet in a creek
This is the song I rested with
Three walls around the town of Tela when I came
Two Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs
Wagon Wheel Gap is a place I never saw
Washerwoman is a member of the Salvation Army, The
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs
When the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks
White Moon comes in on a baby face
Your bony head, Jazbo, O dock walloper
Your eyes and the valley are memories