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Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.

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
Nation
Wheat
Handler
Player
Maker
Huskies
Cities
Makers
Freight
Nations
Tool
Hog
Bigs
Chicago
Butcher
World
Shoulders
Butchers
Tools
Stormy
Brawling
City
Railroads
Husky

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Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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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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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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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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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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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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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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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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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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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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