Quote

And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.

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
Dream
Bigger
Real
Dreams
Smash
Even
Head
Railroads
Way
Wonder
Wonders
Things
Maybe
Chicago
Never
Bigs
Bars
Running
Romance
Place
Beats

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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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If [America] forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.
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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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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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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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And those who say, I'll try anything once, often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
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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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Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
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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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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 the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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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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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.
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I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.
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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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