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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
Arriving
Times
Gate
Often
Gates
Three
Twice
Dream
Dying
Anything
Nothing
Dreams
Trying
Late
Worth
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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I am the people the mob the crowd the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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A politician should have three hats. One for throwing into the ring, one for talking through, and one for pulling rabbits out of if elected.
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Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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There is only one man in the world and his name is All Men. There is only one woman in the world and her name is All Women. There is only one child in the world and the child's name is All Children.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
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The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
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Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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