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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

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
Buffaloes
Abandonment
Extinction
Saws
Gone

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Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
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I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
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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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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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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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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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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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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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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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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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The people know what the land knows.
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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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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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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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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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