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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.

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
Solitude
Tongue
Snowstorm
Thoughts
Buttoned
Alone
Snowstorms
Dark
Overcoat
Men
Tongues
Stood
Red

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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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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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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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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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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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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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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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The people know what the land knows.
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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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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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The simple dignity of a child drinking a bowl of milk embodies the fascination of an ancient rite.
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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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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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