Pencils by Carl Sandburg

PENCILS
telling where the wind comes from
open a story.

Pencils
telling where the wind goes
end a story.

These eager pencils
come to a stop
.. only .. when the stars high over
come to a stop.

Out of cabalistic to-morrows
come cryptic babies calling life
a strong and a lovely thing.
I have seen neither these
nor the stars high over
come to a stop.
Neither these nor the sea horses
running with the clocks of the moon.
Nor even a shooting star
snatching a pencil of fire
writing a curve of gold and white.
Like you .. I counted the shooting stars of a winter
night and my head was dizzy with all
of them calling one by one:

Look for us again.

by Carl Sandburg

Other poems by 'Carl Sandburg'

Horses and Men in Rain

House

How Much?

How Yesterday Looked

Hydrangeas

Grass

Ready to Kill

Chicago

Fog

Happiness

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