Carl Sandburg Quotes - Page 5

When one has the right swing and enthusiasm, selling is not unlike hunting, a veritable sport. To scare up the game by preliminary talk and to know how long to follow it, to lose your gain through poorly directed argument, to hang on to game that finally eludes, to boldly confront, to quickly circle around, to keep on the trail, tireless and keen, till you have bagged some orders, there is some satisfaction in returning at night, tired of the trail, but proud of the days work done.

Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.

I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.

I decided I would go to Chicago and try my luck as a writer after those eight months as a fireman.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.

I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.

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.

History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.

There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

I doubt if you can have a truly wild party without liquor.

I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.

Not often in the story of mankind does a man arrive on earth who is both steel and velvet, who is as hard as rock and soft as drifting fog, who holds in his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect.

Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.

Tongues wrangled dark at a man. He buttoned his overcoat and stood alone. In a snowstorm, red hollyberries, thoughts, he stood alone.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

The past is a bucket of ashes

Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.

We don't have to think up a title till we get the doggone book written.

Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.

Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.

Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love.

Poetry is a puppet-show, where riders of skyrockets and divers of sea fathoms gossip about the sixth sense and the fourth dimension.