Quote

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.

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
Singing
Song
Night
Littles
Find
Little
Creepers
Come
Creeps
Heart
Ambition

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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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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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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.
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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.
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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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Yesterday and tomorrow cross and mix on the skyline. The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets, one waits.
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I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.
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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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I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of the window and see the blue sky - or the answer is wrong and you have to start over and try again and see how it comes out this time.
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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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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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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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I had taken a course in Ethics. I read a thick textbook, heard the class discussions and came out of it saying I hadn't learned a thing I didn't know before about morals and what is right or wrong in human conduct.
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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 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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There are people who want to be everywhere at once, and they get nowhere
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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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