Carl Sandburg Poems

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Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.

Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishers, spreads a chorus of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.

The sea mist green of the bowl’s bottom is a dark throat of SKY crossed by quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing FACES.

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