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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.
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
Poetry
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Goat
Path
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Fountain
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Slit
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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The greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.
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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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Time is the coin of your life. You spend it. Do not allow others to spend it for you.
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I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns. I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.
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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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Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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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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The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.
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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
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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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The people know what the land knows.
Carl Sandburg
