Quote

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
Beautiful
Gray
Shimmering
Remember
Silver
Whispers
Garden
Remembers
Moon
October
Friend
Harvest
Comes
Nights
Death
September
Night
Soft
Drips

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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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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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Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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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 sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
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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.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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God, let me remember all good losers.
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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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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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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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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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The simple dignity of a child drinking a bowl of milk embodies the fascination of an ancient rite.
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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