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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.

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
Never
Difference
Dante
Cities
Milton
Differences
Insulting
Hell
Chicago
Literature
Town
Looking
Towns
Place
Wrote
Years
Saws

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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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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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God, let me remember all good losers.
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Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
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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 is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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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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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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A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
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