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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

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
Scripts
Telling
Poet
Poetry
Rainbows
Away
Phantom
Made
Phantoms
Rainbow
Script

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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
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Faith is indispensable, and the world at times does not seem to have quite enough of it. It can and has accomplished what seems to be the impossible. Wars have been started and men and nations lost for the lack of it. Faith starts from the individual and builds men and nations. America was built by and on the faith of our ancestors.
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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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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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If [America] forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.
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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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Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.
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