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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
Transformation
Lays
Beat
Anvil
Beats
Anvils
Prayer
Spike
Hammer
Hammers
Steel

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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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.
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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.
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Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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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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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 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.
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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.
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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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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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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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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 is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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