Carl Sandburg—poet, writer, and editor (and recipient of three Pulitzer Prizes)—writes his wife, Paula, a short, simple note about a rainstorm.
[Chicago]
Thursday. [September, 1912]
Dearest:
To-night it is a rain song that’s a-calling and a-calling you from The House. It is such a House we have here. During a rain as good as a wilderness.—I am going to bundle some Day Books and send on one day this week—sure. And, honest to God, I am going to write you one good first class letter one of these days—just wait and see.—You and Marny [Margaret] call me back to the white blossoms that were singing all by themselves a wonderful soft peace this morning. This was their first real day for greetings of the season, a quiet summer opening without any advertising or any invitations but just a burst of hail salutations. They were all heavy with rain drops, sheer white and wild, the sun gleaming rainbows and prisms from them, a pathos of eager living in them. Again, so long for now, Sweetheart.
Carl