by Carl Sandburg
The bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Linc-
Shrivels in the sun by day when the motor cars whirr
by in long processions going somewhere to keep ap-
pointment for dinner and matineés and buying and
Though in the dusk and nightfall when high waves are
On the slabs of the promenade along the lake shore near
I have seen the general dare the combers come closer
And make to ride his bronze horse out into the hoofs
and guns of the storm.
I cross Lincoln Park on a winter night when the snow
Lincoln in bronze stands among the white lines of snow,
his bronze forehead meeting soft echoes of the new-
sies crying forty thousand men are dead along the
Yser, his bronze ears listening to the mumbled roar
of the city at his bronze feet.
A lithe Indian on a bronze pony, Shakespeare seated with
long legs in bronze, Garibaldi in a bronze cape, they
hold places in the cold, lonely snow to-night on their
pedestals and so they will hold them past midnight
and into the dawn.