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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.

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
Packed
Fish
Bullet
Fishes
Flying
Mystic
Keys
Hollow
Poetry
Bullets
Five
Feds
Cipher
Wish
Wishes
Ciphers
Silver

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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.
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All my life I have been trying to learn to read, to see and hear, and to write.
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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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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
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I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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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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There is no song to your singing.
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The simple dignity of a child drinking a bowl of milk embodies the fascination of an ancient rite.
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Life goes before we know what it is. / One fool is enough in any house. / Even God gets tired of too much hallelujah. / Take it easy and live long as brothers.
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Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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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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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.
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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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