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Quote by Carl Sandburg

“Presents are delivered from the sky, in every package a prize, a chance, to choke, to suffocate, to forget, yes to forget every last word ever spoken of man higher in the scale than animal creation, the gorilla and the tiger being mere beasts while man has shrines, altars, lights, books awarding him personal immortality, books not yet banned nor burned.”

Quote by Carl Sandburg

Work

Selected poems

This book compiles a selection of poems that showcase the depth and diversity of the author's poetic voice, exploring a range of subjects and employing different literary techniques. more

Author

Carl Sandburg
Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg was a prominent American poet, writer, journalist, and editor. Born on January 6, 1878, in Illinois, he passed away on July 22, 1967. His works primarily depicted rural life in America, industrialization, and the working class, with notable works including 'Chicago' and 'The American Songbag'. more

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“Since almost all of the men were on active duty with the military, very few were available to serve with the Home Guard or as Air Raid Wardens. There were absolutely none assigned to our section, so we had to check our own homes for any unexploded incendiary bombs. Conditions were frightful and complaining didn’t help. Being on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, one of the women in our building cried incessantly. All of us tried to comfort and help her, but we had our own problems and could do precious little to calm her. Suddenly huge shattering explosions changed everything! Three bombs fell very close by. They exploded on our side of the street, causing our entire house to be shaken to its very foundation. The explosions were so severe that we thought the window casings would burst, causing the roof to cave in! When the “All Clear” sounded, we dug our way out and discovered that the bombs had hit the three houses right next to ours.”

“And there goes that siren again,” grumbled Mr. Clay, putting down his paper. “Just as if we haven’t got Christmas bells, or carolers, or a goose to stuff, we must have an air raid, too!” This mild tirade was so unlike Mr. Clay that everyone in the room stopped to look at him. “Oh, get along with you all,” he ordered, waving his hands. “The boys have convinced me to take the night off, and look where it’s going to land me – the Anderson shelter!” “It’s going to be a tight squeeze,” Jozef admitted with a boyish grin. “What you call cozy, yes?” put in Jedrick mischievously. Mr. Clay grunted. “Very cozy.”

“They came here on Sunday, 30th June, 1940, after bombing us two days before. They said they hadn't meant to bomb us; they mistook our tomato lorries on the pier for army trucks. How they came to think that strains the mind. They bombed us, killing some thirty men, women, and children - one among them was my cousin's boy. He had sheltered underneath his lorry when he first saw the planes dropping bombs, and it exploded and caught fire. They killed men in their lifeboats at sea. They strafed the Red Cross ambulances carrying our wounded. When no one shot back at them, they saw the British had left us undefended. They just flew in peaceably two days later and occupied us for five years.”

“Our grief is not a cry for war. "That's how New Yorkers feel," the driver said. "They know what bombing looks like, and they know the hell it is. But outside New York, people will feel guilty because they weren't here. They'll be yelling for revenge out of guilt and ignorance. Sure, we all want to catch the criminals, but only people who weren't in New York will want to bomb another country and repeat what happened here.”