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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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
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Pigeons
Arithmetic
Mathematical
Math
Mathematics
Numbers
Head
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
Carl Sandburg
The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
Carl Sandburg
We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
Carl Sandburg
Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
Carl Sandburg
An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
Carl Sandburg
Nothing happens... but first a dream.
Carl Sandburg
The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
Carl Sandburg
There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
Carl Sandburg
POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
Carl Sandburg
Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
Carl Sandburg
The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
Carl Sandburg
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
I been a wanderin' Early and late, New York City To the Golden Gate An' it looks like I'm never gonna cease my Wanderin'.
Carl Sandburg