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I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

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
Went
Happen
Often
Happens
Littles
Little
Long
Wondered
Things
Building

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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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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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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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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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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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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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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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The people know what the land knows.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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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 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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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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