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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
Else
Done
Life
Nearly
Hungry
Singing

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I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.
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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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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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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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For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
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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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Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this time.
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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
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A politician should have three hats. One for throwing into the ring, one for talking through, and one for pulling rabbits out of if elected.
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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.
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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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I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
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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 mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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