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Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.

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
Evil
Cushions
Money
Blessings
Power
Root
Abundance
Roots
Blessing
Wealth
Freedom
Cushion

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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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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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 ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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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.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.
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