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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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
Telling
Poetry
Morning
Waiting
Moonlit
Hours
Weaving
Story
Spider
Night
Spiders
Stories
Fresh
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The greatest cunning is to have none at all.
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A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.
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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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I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.
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The scholars and poets of an earlier time can be read only with a dictionary to help.
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What is there more of in the world than anything else? Ends.
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The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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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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The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time
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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.
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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The fog comes on little cat feet.
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A tree is best measured when it is down - and so it is with people.
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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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Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.
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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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Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.
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