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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
Even
Feet
Walls
Yawn
Make
Willing
Kitchen
Clocks
Answers
Clock
Doorway
Eyes
Lips
Hours
Dancing
Doorways
Half
Window
Dreaming
Eye
Singing
September
Dream
Wall
Farmers
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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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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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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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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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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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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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There is only one man in the world and his name is All Men. There is only one woman in the world and her name is All Women. There is only one child in the world and the child's name is All Children.
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All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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