Quote

Anger is the most impotent of passions. It effects nothing it goes about, and hurts the one who is possessed by it more than the one against whom it is directed.

Carl Sandburg

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Carl Sandburg
Age: 89 †
Born: 1878
Born: January 6
Died: 1967
Died: July 22
Biographer
Historian
Journalist
Musicologist
Novelist
Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
Anger
Effects
Goes
Hurt
Impotent
Passion
Directed
Nothing
Hurts
Passions
Possessed

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
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I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.
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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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The people know what the land knows.
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Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.
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I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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