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

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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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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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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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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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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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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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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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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.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
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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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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
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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 search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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