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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.
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
Nothing
Dreams
Trying
Late
Worth
Times
Arriving
Often
Gate
Three
Gates
Dream
Twice
Anything
Dying
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
Carl Sandburg
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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
Carl Sandburg
I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
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There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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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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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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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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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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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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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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Nothing happens... but first a dream.
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The people know what the land knows.
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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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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
Carl Sandburg