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

More quotes by Carl Sandburg

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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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Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it?' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'
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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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Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.
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Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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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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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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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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Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.
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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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To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damned hard.
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Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.
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I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.
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Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.
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Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.
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The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.
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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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