Quote

I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.

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
Age
Passes
Woman
Realms
Felt
Aging
Better
Treat
Candid
Right
Treats
Always
Subject
Ambiguity
World
Subjects
Ninety
Perhaps
Realm

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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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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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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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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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
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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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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
Carl Sandburg
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I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
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The people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
Carl Sandburg
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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
Carl Sandburg
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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.
Carl Sandburg
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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