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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.
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
Hard
Horses
Way
Bloody
Bones
Primrose
Horse
Knuckles
Poetry
Foam
Ways
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Path
Arithmetic
Stars
Easiest
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
If I added to their pride of America, I am happy.
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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Faith is indispensable, and the world at times does not seem to have quite enough of it. It can and has accomplished what seems to be the impossible. Wars have been started and men and nations lost for the lack of it. Faith starts from the individual and builds men and nations. America was built by and on the faith of our ancestors.
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a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.
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There is only one man in the world and his name is All Men. There is only one woman in the world and her name is All Women. There is only one child in the world and the child's name is All Children.
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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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An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, Come and find me, come and find me.
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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.
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Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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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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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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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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And those who say, I'll try anything once, often try nothing twice, three times, arriving late at the gate of dreams worth dying for.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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The people will live on.The learning and blundering people will live on.
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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