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

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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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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There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
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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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Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
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I am! I have come through! I belong!
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There is a music for lonely hearts nearly always. If the music dies down there is a silence. Almost the same as the movement of music. To know silence perfectly is to know music.
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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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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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To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”
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Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.
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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you.
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What else have I done nearly all my life than go hungry and go on singing?
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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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There was always the consolation that if I didn't like what I wrote I could throw it away or burn it.
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Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.
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Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
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If [America] forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.
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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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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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