Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Commentary
As Thomas remarked in the notes to Crucible[1], Sandburg’s poetry ranges from passionate, granitic verse to the most delicate and finely-chiselled Imagist poems, and he displays an equal mastery of both ends of the spectrum. Today’s poem - perhaps his most famous after Chicago - belongs to the latter category; as perfect and self-contained as a miniature, and with a truly striking central image.
— Martin
Links
A biography of Sandburg is available at poem #163
‘Crucible’ is at poem #205,
along with another biography
We’ve run a number of Sandburg poems - look up the index at
The Wondering Minstrels