Quote

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.

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
Runs
Reach
Joy
Happiness
Running
Keep
Hands
Take

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.
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Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'
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Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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The people know what the land knows.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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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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And those who say, I'll try anything once, often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
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Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
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Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
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Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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