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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.

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
Men
Holding
Stronger
Dreams
Dies
Death
Dream
Women

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There is no song to your singing.
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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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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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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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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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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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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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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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A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
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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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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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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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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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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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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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