HANDFULS

By Carl Sandburg

BLOSSOMS of babies

Blinking their stories

Come soft

On the dusk and the babble;

Little red gamblers,

Handfuls that slept in the dust.

Summers of rain,

Winters of drift,

Tell off the years;

And they go back

Who came soft—

Back to the sod,

To silence and dust;

Gray gamblers,

Handfuls again.