Jan Kubelik

Poem By Carl Sandburg

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.)

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Other poems of SANDBURG

Arithmetic

Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your
    head.
Arithmetic tell you how many you lose or win if you know how
    many you had before you lost or won.

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking

Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
   sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

Among The Red Guns

Among the red guns,
In the hearts of soldiers
Running free blood
In the long, long campaign:

A Coin

Your western heads here cast on money,
You are the two that fade away together,
Partners in the mist.

Aprons Of Silence

Many things I might have said today.
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things