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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

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
Literature
Language
Hyacinths
Biscuits
Synthesis
Poetic
Poetry

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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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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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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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God, let me remember all good losers.
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A politician should have three hats. One for throwing into the ring, one for talking through, and one for pulling rabbits out of if elected.
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Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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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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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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