HANDFULSBy Carl SandburgBLOSSOMS of babiesBlinking their storiesCome softOn 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 backWho came soft—Back to the sod,To silence and dust;Gray gamblers,Handfuls again.

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