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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
Head
Like
Pigeons
Arithmetic
Mathematical
Math
Mathematics
Numbers

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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
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I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.
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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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Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.
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Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
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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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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
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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.
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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
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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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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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