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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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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
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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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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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The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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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.
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I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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The people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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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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Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
Carl Sandburg
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Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
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The people know what the land knows.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
Carl Sandburg