Poem By Carl Sandburg
When the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes
of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge,
There are points of high silence--twiddling of thumbs is at an end--bailiffs near cuspidors take fresh
chews of tobacco and wait--and the clock has a chance for its ticking to be heard.
A lawyer for the defense clears his throat and holds himself ready if the word is "Guilty" to enter
motion for a new trial, speaking in a soft voice, speaking in a voice slightly colored with bitter wrongs
mingled with monumental patience, speaking with mythic Atlas shoulders of many preposterous,