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Updated: June 4, 2025
This is the sum of a criticism so strongly felt that it raises a barrier to appreciation, almost a gate shut against knowledge between the good American readers and the progressives in our literature. Sandburg and Lindsay between them will cause more acrimony in a gathering of English teachers than even Harold Bell Wright. Miss Lowell carries controversy with her, triumphantly riding upon it.
It becomes yearly more obvious that the duly elected, commissioned and delegated high priests of the nation's morale are growing blind to the dangers which assail them. If not, then how does it come that such enemies of the public weal as H. L. Mencken, Floyd Dell, Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, Dos Passos, Mr. Cabell, Mr. Rascoe, Mr. Sandburg, Mr. Sinclair Lewis are not in jail?
Sara Teasdale her poems of love her youth her finished art Fannie Stearns Davis her thoughtful verse Theodosia Garrison her war poem war poetry of Mary Carolyn Davies Harriet Monroe her services her original work Alice Corbin her philosophy Sarah Cleghorn poet of the country village Jessie B. Rittenhouse critic and poet Margaret Widdemer poet of the factories Carl Sandburg poet of Chicago his career his defects J. C. Underwood poet of city noises T. S. Eliot J. G. Neihardt love poems C. W. Stork Contemporary Verse M. L. Fisher The Sonnet S. Middleton J. P. Bishop W. A. Bradley nature poems W. Griffith City Pastorals John Erskine W. E. Leonard W. T. Whitsett Helen Hay Whitney Corinne Roosevelt Robinson M. Nicholson his left hand Witter Bynner a country poet H. Hagedorn Percy Mackaye his theories his possibilities J. G. Fletcher monotony of free verse Conrad Aiken his gift of melody W. A. Percy the best American poem of 1917 Alan Seeger an Elizabethan an inspired poet.
If feeling and appreciation could produce poetry, then we should all be poets. But it is also necessary to know how to write. Carl Sandburg was born at Galesburg, Illinois, on the sixth of January, 1878. He has "worked his own way" through life with courage and ambition, performing any kind of respectable indoor and outdoor toil that would keep him alive.
Sandburg at his worst; we are all pretty bad at our worst, whether we are poets or not; I prefer to cite one of his poems which proves to me that he is not only an original writer, but that he possesses a perceptive power of beauty that transforms the commonplace into something of poignant charm, like the song of the nightingale: Desolate and lone All night long on the lake Where fog trails and mist creeps, The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbour's breast And the harbour's eyes.
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