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Before the French Revolution, only a few were invited to sit down and eat, while the majority were permitted to kneel and watch from a distance. A Frenchman once remarked, "The great appear to us great because we are kneeling let us rise." They rose, and out of the turmoil came an enormous enlargement of the dining-hall. Carl Sandburg sings of Chicago with husky-haughty lips.
It is advisable, I think, to follow such analyses of the diction of Milton, Keats and Tennyson by a scrutiny of the diction employed by contemporary poets like Edgar Lee Masters and Carl Sandburg. The following passages in prose and verse, printed without the authors' names, are suggested as an exercise in the study of diction: 1.
Carl Sandburg said, "I see America not in the setting sun of a black night of despair... I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God... I see great days ahead for men and women of will and vision." I've never felt more strongly that America's best days and democracy's best days lie ahead. We're a powerful force for good.
He would say that if the infinitely complex study of emotional mind-states that lies behind the poetry of Edwin Arlington Robinson, or the eerie otherworldliness of Yeats, or the harsh virility of Sandburg is to be regarded as an intensification and clarification of experience, he begs to be excused.
Edith Wharton, Booth Tarkington and Stuart P. Sherman, Miss Amy Lowell and Mr. Frank Moore Colby, Robert Frost and Edwin Arlington Robinson, Vachel Lindsay and Carl Sandburg, Mrs. Gerould and Professor William Lyon Phelps, Edgar Lee Masters, Joseph Hergesheimer, and most of the more radicaleditors of New York. Here is this group of desiccated Victorians, upholders of the ethics of Mr.
I am sorry for the traditionalist who cannot enjoy Robert Frost and Edwin Arlington Robinson and Edgar Lee Masters and Carl Sandburg. He is, in my opinion, in a parlous state. But the state of the young rebel who cannot enjoy "Lycidas" and "The Progress of Poesy" and the "Ode to Dejection" is worse than parlous. It is hopeless.
It is not the raw material of poetry, like that of Carl Sandburg, yet it is not exactly the finished product that passes by the common name. It is rather the essence of poetry, the spirit of poetry, a clear flame almost impalpable. "You may not be worthy to smoke the Arcadia mixture," well we may not be worthy to read all that Mr. Woodberry Writes. And I am convinced that it is not his fault.
Carl Sandburg said, "I see America not in the setting sun of a black night of despair... I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God... I see great days ahead for men and women of will and vision." I've never felt more strongly that America's best days and democracy's best days lie ahead. We're a powerful force for good.
Sandburg is closer to Walt Whitman than almost any other of our contemporary poets. I do not call him an imitator, and certainly he is no plagiarist; but I like that part of his work which is farthest removed from the manner of the man of Camden.
In a late number of "Current Opinion," Carl Sandburg, who, I am told, is their chosen leader, waves his dirty shirt in the face of the public in this fashion: "My shirt is a token and a symbol more than a cover from sun and rain, My shirt is a signal and a teller of souls, I can take off my shirt and tear it, and so make a ripping razzly noise, and the people will say, 'Look at him tear his shirt!
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