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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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
Rolls
Sleeves
Spit
Goes
Language
Hands
Spits
Writing
Work
Slang
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
Carl Sandburg
You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
Carl Sandburg
I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
Carl Sandburg
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
Carl Sandburg
There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.
Carl Sandburg
Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
Carl Sandburg
There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
Carl Sandburg
Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
Carl Sandburg
Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
Carl Sandburg
A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
Carl Sandburg
The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
Carl Sandburg
I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
Carl Sandburg
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
Carl Sandburg
The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
Carl Sandburg
I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
Carl Sandburg
Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
Carl Sandburg
