85 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．
