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The greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.

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
Uncertainty
Certainty
Greatest
Death
Time
Life

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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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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Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.
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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 a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
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Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.
Carl Sandburg
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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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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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For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.
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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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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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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.
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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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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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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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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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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
Carl Sandburg
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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
Carl Sandburg