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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
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Poet
Screenwriter
Trade Unionist
Writer
Galesburg
Illinois
Carl August Sandburg
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Woman
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More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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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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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer 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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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
Carl Sandburg
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.
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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 scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'
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Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
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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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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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