Quote

Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.

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
Worth
Rainbows
Saying
Bubble
Found
Curves
Two
Bubbles
Rainbow
Seconds
Thirty
Held
Flickered

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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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Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
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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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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
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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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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.
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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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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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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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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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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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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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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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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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