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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?

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
Hungry
Singing
Else
Done
Life
Nearly

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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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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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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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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 the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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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.
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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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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 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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There is no song to your singing.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.
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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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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