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Tell me if the lovers are losers... tell me if any get more than the lovers.

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
Losers
Loser
Lovers
Tell

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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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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
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I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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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 fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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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 search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.
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There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.
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