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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
Hours
Dancing
Doorways
Half
Window
Dreaming
Eye
Singing
September
Dream
Wall
Farmers
Even
Feet
Walls
Make
Willing
Kitchen
Yawn
Answers
Clock
Clocks
Eyes
Lips
Doorway
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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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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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'
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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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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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Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.
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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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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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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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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 the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
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