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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.
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
Around
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Poetry
Thoughts
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Lasts
Interweaving
Last
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Two
Beat
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
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
Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
Carl Sandburg
Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.
Carl Sandburg
The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
Carl Sandburg
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.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.
Carl Sandburg
A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
Carl Sandburg
All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
Carl Sandburg
Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
Carl Sandburg
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
Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
Carl Sandburg
I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
Carl Sandburg
We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
Carl Sandburg
What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
Carl Sandburg
Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
Carl Sandburg