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

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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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There is no song to your singing.
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I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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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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There are some people who can receive a truth by no other way than to have their understanding shocked and insulted.
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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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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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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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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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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
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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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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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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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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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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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