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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.

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
Hammers
Steel
Transformation
Lays
Beat
Anvil
Beats
Anvils
Prayer
Spike
Hammer

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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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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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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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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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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Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.
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Faith is indispensable, and the world at times does not seem to have quite enough of it. It can and has accomplished what seems to be the impossible. Wars have been started and men and nations lost for the lack of it. Faith starts from the individual and builds men and nations. America was built by and on the faith of our ancestors.
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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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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.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
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I been a wanderin' Early and late, New York City To the Golden Gate An' it looks like I'm never gonna cease my Wanderin'.
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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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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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