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Read more poems by Carl Sandburg: Carl Sandburg Poems at Poetry X.

      [They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
     days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]

Come to me only with playthings now. . .
A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers. . .
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world. . .

No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet. . .
And at the window one day in summer
Yellow of the new crock of butter
Stood against the red of new climbing roses. . .
And the world was all playthings.

Added: 16 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 5 Sep 2008 5:52 PM | Viewed: 1940 times

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