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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.
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
Wind
Silk
Land
Whisper
Fall
Lands
Black
Corn
Come
Flat
Hangers
Flats
Spear
Autumn
Spears
Leaves
Lap
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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The people know what the land knows.
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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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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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The people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
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A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
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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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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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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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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
Carl Sandburg