Quote

The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.

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
Years
Leaves
Held
Pages
Clover
Books
Clovers
Peace
Bleach
Light
Stains
Book
Pressed
Great
Leather

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.
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We had two grand antique professors who had been teaching at Lombard since before I was born.
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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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The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
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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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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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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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Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
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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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A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
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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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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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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
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Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.
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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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I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.
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We live in the time of the colossal upright oblong.
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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.
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