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If [America] forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.
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
America
Brought
People
Sight
Begin
Along
Lose
Deniers
Loses
Dissolution
Came
Forgets
Forget
Listens
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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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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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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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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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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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
Carl Sandburg
Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.
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And those who say, I'll try anything once, often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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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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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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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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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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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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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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