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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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
Rich
Desire
Doe
Without
Arrives
Nothing
Counts
Soft
Wanting
Tough
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
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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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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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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Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'
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Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
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Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
Carl Sandburg
An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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There are some people who can receive a truth by no other way than to have their understanding shocked and insulted.
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And those who say, I'll try anything once, often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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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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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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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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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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