Quote

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.

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
Come
Alive
Lifted
Giving
Turns
Cunning
Show
Singing
Strong
City
Shows
Proud
Another
Cities
Give
Turn
Sneer
Back
Head
Coarse

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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It is necessary now and then for a man to go away by himself and experience loneliness to sit on a rock in the forest and to ask of himself, 'Who am I, and where have I been, and where am I going?'...If one is not careful, one allows diversions to take up one's time-the stuff of life
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
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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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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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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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God, let me remember all good losers.
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Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
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There are some people who can receive a truth by no other way than to have their understanding shocked and insulted.
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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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