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Yesterday is done. Tomorrow never comes. Today is here. If you don't know what to do, sit still and listen. You may hear something. Nobody knows.

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
Something
Nobody
Never
Hear
Comes
Stills
Still
Today
Yesterday
May
Listen
Done
Tomorrow

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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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When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.
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Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?
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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.
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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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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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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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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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And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.
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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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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
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To never see a fool you lock yourself in your room and smash the looking-glass.
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Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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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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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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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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