WHEN Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin … in the dust, in the cool
tombs.
 
And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes … in the dust, in the
cool tombs.
 
Pocahontas’ body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she
remember? … in the dust, in the cool tombs?
 
Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns …
tell me if the lovers are losers … tell me if any get more than the lovers … in the dust … in the cool tombs.

Added: on May 20th, 2008 at 6:19 PM | Viewed: 3643 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 27. Cool Tombs
Volume: Cornhuskers
- Haunts
Year: Published/Written in 1918
Poem of the Day: Jun 5 2005

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