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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time

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
Tomorrow
Takes
Woman
Time
Sits
Named
Teeth

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
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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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The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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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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Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.
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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
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Yesterday is done. Tomorrow never comes. Today is here. If you don't know what to do, sit still and listen. You may hear something. Nobody knows.
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Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
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A politician should have three hats. One for throwing into the ring, one for talking through, and one for pulling rabbits out of if elected.
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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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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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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