Carl Sandburg





Paula

Nothing else in this song—only your face.	
Nothing else here—only your drinking, night-gray eyes.	
  
The pier runs into the lake straight as a rifle barrel.	
I stand on the pier and sing how I know you mornings.	
It is not your eyes, your face, I remember.	     
It is not your dancing, race-horse feet.	
It is something else I remember you for on the pier mornings.	
  
Your hands are sweeter than nut-brown bread when you touch me.	
Your shoulder brushes my arm—a south-west wind crosses the pier.	
I forget your hands and your shoulder and I say again:	      
  
Nothing else in this song—only your face.	
Nothing else here—only your drinking, night-gray eyes.