CRIMSON is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his
coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows
and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 5. Crimson
Volume: Chicago Poems
- Handfuls
Year: Published/Written in 1913
Poem of the Day: Aug 14 2002
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