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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.

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
Hard
Spent
Work
Fields
Much
Amount
Would
Knew
Time
Hours
Natural
Stayed
Away
Mathematics
Take
Field

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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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The people know what the land knows.
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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.
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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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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.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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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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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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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 greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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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.
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