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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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Poetry

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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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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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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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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Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
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Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
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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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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.
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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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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Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
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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.
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
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Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.
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