Quote

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

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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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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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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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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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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.
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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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I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
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When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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