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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

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
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Last
Running
Mist
Back
Poets
Love
Dust
Poet
Poetry
Answers

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this 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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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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Yesterday is done. Tomorrow never comes. Today is here. If you don't know what to do, sit still and listen. You may hear something. Nobody knows.
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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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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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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
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Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
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A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
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