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Carl Sandburg - The Noon Hour
Work rating: Medium

She sits in the dust at the walls  
  And makes cigars,  
Bending at the bench  
With fingers wage-anxious,  
Changing her sweat for the day’s pay.
  
Now the noon hour has come,  
And she leans with her bare arms  
On the window-sill over the river,  
Leans and feels at her throat  
Cool-moving things out of the free open ways:
  
At her throat and eyes and nostrils  
The touch and the blowing cool  
Of great free ways beyond the walls.
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