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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
Certainty
Greatest
Death
Time
Life
Uncertainty

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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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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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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Yesterday is done. Tomorrow never comes. Today is here. If you don't know what to do, sit still and listen. You may hear something. Nobody knows.
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Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.
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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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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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Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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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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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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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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I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.
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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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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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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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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 a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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