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The sea is always the same: and yet the sea always changes.
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
Sea
Changes
Always
More quotes by Carl Sandburg
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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Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.
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Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.
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Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.
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A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.
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Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
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An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.
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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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Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.
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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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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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Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.
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In democracy both a deep reverence and a sense of the comic are requisite.
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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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POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
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Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.
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You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.
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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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God, let me remember all good losers.
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Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
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