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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.

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
Didn
Always
Like
Consolation
Burn
Throw
Wrote
Literature
Away

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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
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Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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The people know what the land knows.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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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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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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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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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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The simple dignity of a child drinking a bowl of milk embodies the fascination of an ancient rite.
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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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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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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