Cripple

Once when I saw a cripple
Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague,
Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air,
Desperately gesturing with wasted hands
In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum,
I said to myself
I would rather have been a tall sunflower
Living in a country garden
Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer,
Rain-washed and dew-misted,
Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks,
And wonderingly watching night after night
The clear silent processionals of stars.

by Carl Sandburg

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Comments (2)

Seems to be stating the pretty obvious. I'm surprised Sandburg was so admired once.
Seems to be stating the pretty obvious. I'm surprised Sandburg was so admired once.