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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.
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
Eyes
Lips
Doorway
Hours
Dancing
Doorways
Half
Window
Dreaming
Eye
Singing
September
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Wall
Farmers
Even
Feet
Walls
Make
Willing
Kitchen
Yawn
Answers
Clock
Clocks
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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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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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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God, let me remember all good losers.
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Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time-the stuff of life
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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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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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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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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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