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Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
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
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October
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Harvest
Comes
Nights
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September
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Drips
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Remembers
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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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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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
Carl Sandburg
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
Carl Sandburg
Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
Carl Sandburg
It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time-the stuff of life
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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The greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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There is only one man in the world and his name is All Men. There is only one woman in the world and her name is All Women. There is only one child in the world and the child's name is All Children.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
Carl Sandburg
I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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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 any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
Carl Sandburg