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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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
Worry
Literature
Night
Blow
Things
Wings
Window
Destiny
Wind
Strange
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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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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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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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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Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this time.
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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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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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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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There is no song to your singing.
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