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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
Life
Horizons
Explanations
Fading
Swift
Horizon
Explanation
Series
Poetry
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
Carl Sandburg
The people know what the land knows.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
Carl Sandburg
Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
Carl Sandburg
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
Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
Carl Sandburg
Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
Carl Sandburg
The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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
Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
Carl Sandburg
Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
Carl Sandburg
I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
Carl Sandburg