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

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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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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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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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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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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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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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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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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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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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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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Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.
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There is no song to your singing.
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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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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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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