Jan Kubelik

Your bow swept over a string, and a long low note quivered to the air.
(A mother of Bohemia sobs over a new child perfect learning to suck milk.)

Your bow ran fast over all the high strings fluttering and wild.
(All the girls in Bohemia are laughing on a Sunday afternoon in the hills with their lovers.)

by Carl Sandburg

Other poems of SANDBURG (456)

Comments (0)

There is no comment submitted by members.