Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Cornhuskers. 1918.
17. Caboose Thoughts
I
The sun, the birds, the grass—they know.
They get along—and we’ll get along.
And the letter you wait for won’t come,
And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray
And the letter I wait for won’t come.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
Spilling its heart in the morning.
It’s a high white Mexican hat, I hear.
Nor a dish of soup with Jim Hill.
I know some of the boys here who can go a little.
I know girls good for a burst of speed any time.
Before Walker died in the bughouse.
Working in a barber shop in an Indiana town,
And he thought he had a million dollars.
She had eyes; I saw her and said to myself
The sun rises and the sun sets in her eyes.
I was her steady and her heart went pit-a-pat.
We took away the money for a prize waltz at a Brotherhood dance.
She had eyes; she was safe as the bridge over the Mississippi at Burlington; I married her.
Pike’s Peak is a big old stone, believe me.
It’s fastened down; something you can count on.
The sun, the birds, the grass—they know.
They get along—and we’ll get along.