The speaker in Carl Sandburg’s poem has been reading William Morris’s old writings about the medieval churches of northern France — their arches, naves, and small carved corners. Meanwhile, for a year, artillery has been pounding the land between Brussels and Paris. The speaker shudders and keeps telling Morris he is glad he is dead. It sounds harsh, but it comes from grief: Morris loved those stones because medieval workmen put their songs, prayers, children, kisses, wheat, and roses into them. The speaker cannot stand the thought of Morris living to see that handmade world shelled into rubble. The repeated line about the guns frames the poem with war, and the mood is bitter, sorrowful, and oddly protective — mourning the human warmth carved into the churches even as modern warfare destroys them.
Salvage — Summary
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on the great arches and naves and little whimsical corners of the Churches of Northern France — Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory instead of a living man — I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the shape of those stones piled and carved for you to dream over and wonder because workmen got joy of life into them.
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and praying, and putting their songs and prayers into the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones and gargoyles — all their children and kisses of women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between Brussels and Paris.