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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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
Series
Poetry
Life
Horizons
Explanations
Fading
Swift
Horizon
Explanation
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.
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Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
Carl Sandburg
God, let me remember all good losers.
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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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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
Carl Sandburg
I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
Carl Sandburg
The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
Carl Sandburg
Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
Carl Sandburg
The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
Carl Sandburg
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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Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
Carl Sandburg
The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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