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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
Life
Liar
Deceit
Liars
Tells
Lies
Dies
Lying
Lives

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Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.
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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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Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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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 have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.
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Faith is indispensable, and the world at times does not seem to have quite enough of it. It can and has accomplished what seems to be the impossible. Wars have been started and men and nations lost for the lack of it. Faith starts from the individual and builds men and nations. America was built by and on the faith of our ancestors.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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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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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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