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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
Arithmetic
Mathematical
Math
Mathematics
Numbers
Head
Like
Pigeons

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I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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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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Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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There is no song to your singing.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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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 mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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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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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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