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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.

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
Crosses
Yesterday
Skyline
Tomorrow
Skylines
Waiting
Haze
Forget
Forgets
Lost
Waits
Two
Purple
Cross

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Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
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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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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
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Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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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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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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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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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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I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.
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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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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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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I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.
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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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There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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