Honey and Salt by Carl Sandburg Page A

winding of it gets into your walk, your hands,
your face and eyes.

Pass, Friend
    The doors of the morning must open.
    The keys of the night are not thrown away.
    Â 
    I who have loved morning know its doors.
    I who have loved night know its keys.

Alone and Not Alone
    Â                    I
    There must be a place
    a room and a sanctuary
    set apart for silence
    for shadows and roses
    holding aware in walls
    the sea and its secrets
    gong clamor gone still
    in a long deep sea-wash
    aware always of gongs
    vanishing before shadows
    of roses repeating themes
    of ferns standing still
    till wind blows over them:
    great hunger may bring these
    into one little room
    set apart for silence
    Â 
    Â                            II
There must be substance here
related to old communions of
hungering men and women—
brass is a hard lean metal
gold is the most ductile metal—
they speak to each other not often
they melt and fuse
only in the crucible of this communion
only in the dangers of high moments—
they moan as mist before wind
    Â 
    Â                                  III
    The shuttlings of dawn color go soft
    weaving out of the night of black ice
    with crimson ramblers
    up the latticed ladders of daytime arriving.
    The riders of the sea     the long white horses
    they send their plungers obedient to the moon
    in a dedicated path of foam and rainbows.
    The praise of any slow red moonrise should be
    Â                                                   slow.
    There are storm winds who bow down to
    Â                                                   nothing.
    They go on relentless under command and
    Â                                                   release
    sent out to do their hammering whirls of storm.
    There are sunset flames inviting prayer and
    Â                                                   sharing.
    There are time pieces having silence between
    Â                                                   chimes.
    Children of the wind keep their childish ways.
    The wisps of blue in a smoke wreath are mortal.
    The keepers of wisdom testify a heap of ashes
    means whatever was there went out burning.

Wingtip
    The birds—are they worth remembering?
    Is flight a wonder and one wingtip a
    space marvel?
    When will man know what birds know?

Love Is a Deep and a Dark and a Lonely
    love is a deep and a dark and a lonely
    and you take it deep take it dark
    and take it with a lonely winding
    and when the winding gets too lonely
    then may come the windflowers
    and the breath of wind over many flowers
    winding its way out of many lonely flowers
    waiting in rainleaf whispers
    waiting in dry stalks of noon
    wanting in a music of windbreaths
    so you can take love as it comes keening
    as it comes with a voice and a face
    and you make a talk of it
    talking to yourself a talk worth keeping
    and you put it away for a keen keeping
    and you find it to be a hoarding
    and you give it away and yet it stays hoarded
    Â 
    like a book read over and over again
    like one book being a long row of books
    like leaves of windflowers bending low
    and bending to be never broken

Almanac
    Scrutinize the Scorpion constellation
    and see where a hook of stars
    ends with a lonely star.
    Â 
    Go to the grey sea horizon
    and ask for a message
    and listen and wait.
    Â 
    See whether the conundrums
    of a heavy land fog
    either sing or talk.
    Â 
    Let only a small cry come
    in behalf of a clean sunrise:
    the sun performs so often.
    Â 
    Speak to the