Carl Sandburg Quotes - Page 7

I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.

I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.

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.

I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.

My room for books and study or for sitting and thinking about nothing in particular to see what would happen was at the end of a hall.

Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.

I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.

You know being born is important to you. You know nothing else was ever so important to you.

out of great Russia came three dusky syllables workmen took guns and went out to die for: Bread, Peace, Land.

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

The shovel is the brother to the gun.

So I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

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.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

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.

Strange things blow in through my window on the wings of the night wind and I don't worry about my destiny.

The woman named Tomorrow sits with a hairpin in her teeth and takes her time

The drum in a dream pounds loud to the dreamer.

Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?

Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.

Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.

Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.

Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

God, let me remember all good losers.