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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.

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
Never
Recent
Time
Marvelous
Invention
Baby
Child
Inspirational
Come
Children
Newborn

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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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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.
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I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.
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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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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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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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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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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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