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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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
Freedom
Science
Ideas
Reason
Men
Vanishes
Vanish
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
Carl Sandburg
The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
Carl Sandburg
And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
Carl Sandburg
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
Carl Sandburg
The fog comes on little cat feet.
Carl Sandburg
Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
Carl Sandburg
Nothing happens... but first a dream.
Carl Sandburg
Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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
Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
I am! I have come through! I belong!
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
Carl Sandburg
I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
Carl Sandburg
Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
Carl Sandburg