Carl Sandburg’s speaker is answering someone who talks about style as if it can be studied or judged. He doesn’t reject the conversation, but he draws a line: style is not decoration. It is as personal as a face. He compares it to Pavlowa’s legs or Ty Cobb’s batting eye — gifts and physical truths that make a person who they are. The speaker admits his style may not be beautiful: “Maybe no good / but anyway, my face.” Still, he refuses to let it be taken. It is how he talks, sings, sees, tastes, and feels. The mood is warm but stubborn, even confrontational. He makes a warning: killing his style would be like breaking a dancer’s legs or blinding an athlete. The poem says identity is non-negotiable.
Style — Summary
Style — go ahead talking about style. You can tell where a man gets his style just as you can tell where Pavlowa got her legs or Ty Cobb his batting eye.
Go on talking. Only don't take my style away.
It's my face. Maybe no good but anyway, my face.
I talk with it, I sing with it, I see, taste and feel with it, I know why I want to keep it.
Kill my style and you break Pavlowa's legs, and you blind Ty Cobb's batting eye.