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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

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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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I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.
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Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.
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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
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Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.
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Faith is indispensable, and the world at times does not seem to have quite enough of it. It can and has accomplished what seems to be the impossible. Wars have been started and men and nations lost for the lack of it. Faith starts from the individual and builds men and nations. America was built by and on the faith of our ancestors.
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The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading Keep Off.
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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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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.
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The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.
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Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.
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Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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I remember in my early 20s when I felt I couldn't live past 30. I was learning how to write. I had a lot of hard work ahead of me.
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And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.
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Time is a great teacher, Who can live without hope?
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Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.
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Nothing happens unless first we dream.
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