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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
Lying
Lives
Life
Liar
Deceit
Liars
Tells
Lies
Dies

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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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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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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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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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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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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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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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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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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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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 projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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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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The people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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