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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.

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
Literature
Born
Two
Antique
Antiques
Professors
Grand
Teaching
Since

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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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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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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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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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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
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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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Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
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Alike and ever alike, we are on all continents in the need of love, food, clothing, work, speech, worship, sleep, games, dancing, fun. From tropics to arctics humanity live with these needs so alike, so inexorably alike.
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I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.
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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.
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Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
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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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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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