Hydrangeas by Carl Sandburg

Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas
turn rust and go soon.
Already mid September a line of brown runs
over them.
One sunset after another tracks the faces, the
petals.
Waiting, they look over the fence for what
way they go.

by Carl Sandburg

Other poems by 'Carl Sandburg'

Horses and Men in Rain

House

How Much?

How Yesterday Looked

Grass

Ready to Kill

Chicago

Fog

Happiness

The Junk Man