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Blizzard Notes

by Carl Sandburg, 1918

I don’t blame the kettle drums—they are hungry.
 And the snare drums—I know what they want—they are empty too.
 And the harring booming bass drums—they are hungriest of all.

* * *

 The howling spears of the Northwest die down.
 The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.
 A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.

Published in Cornhuskers

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.