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Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.

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
March
Folly
Gravest
Wings
Marches
Dance
Follies
Poetry
Buck
Along
Measuring
Dead
Bucks
Music
Wing

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Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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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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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.
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Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.
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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 people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
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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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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.
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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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I been a wanderin' Early and late, New York City To the Golden Gate An' it looks like I'm never gonna cease my Wanderin'.
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Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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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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Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
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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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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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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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