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A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.

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
Lies
Dies
Lying
Lives
Life
Liar
Deceit
Liars
Tells

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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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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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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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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 an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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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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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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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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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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The greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.
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Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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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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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.
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People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
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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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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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