Sea Slant

On up the sea slant,

On up the horizon,

The ship limps.

The bone of her nose fog-gray,

The heart of her sea-strong,

She came a long way,

She goes a long way.

On up the sea slant,

On up the horizon,

She limps sea-strong, fog-gray

She is a green-lit night gray.

She comes and goes in sea-fog.

Up the horizon slant she limps.

Carl Sandburg

Improved Farm Land

Tall timber stood here once, hee on a corn belt farm along the Monon.

Here the roots of a half-mile of trees dug their runners deep in the loam for a grip and a hold against wind storms.

Then the axemen came and the chips flew to the zing of steel and handle--the lank railsplitters cut the big ones first, the beeches and the oaks, then the brush.

Dynamite, wagons, and horses took the stumps--the plows sunk their teeth in--now it is first class corn land--omproved property--and the hogs grunt over the fodder crops.

It would come hard now for this half mile of improved farm land along the Monon corn belt, on a piece of Grand Prarie, to remember once it had a great singing family of trees.

Carl Sandburg

Hell on the Wabash

When country fiddlers held a convention in

Danville, the big money went to a barn dance

artist who played Turkey in the Straw, with

variations.

They asked him the name of the piece calling

it a humdinger and he answered, "I call it

'Hell on the Wabash.'"

The two next best were The Speckled Hen, and

Sweet Potatoes Grow in Sandy Land, with

variations.

Carl Sandburg

Primer Lesson

Look out how you use proud words.

When you let proud words go, it is not easy to call them back.

They wear long boots, hard boots; they walk off proud; they can't hear you calling--

Look out how you use proud words.

Carl Sandburg

from Slabs of the Sunburnt West

Good night. it is scribbled on the panels

of the cold gray open desert.

Good night; on the big sky blanket over the

Santa Fé trail it is woven in the oldest

Indian blanket songs.

Buffers of land, breakers of sea, say it and

say it, over and over, good night, good night.

Tie your hat to the saddle

and ride, ride, ride, O Rider.

Lay your rails and wires

and ride, ride, ride, O Rider.

The worn tired stars say

you shall die early and die dirty.

The clean cold stars say

you shall die late and die clean.

The runaway stars say

you shall never die at all,

never at all.

Carl Sandburg