Best 258 of Carl Sandburg quotes - MyQuotes

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Carl Sandburg
By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart, The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust. A spider will make a silver string nest in the darkest, warmest corner of it.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The peace of great books be for you, Stains of pressed clover leaves on pages, Bleach of the light of years held in leather.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Show me the telegrams they sent you, one every day for six days while they were walking six hundred miles on their pigeon toes." .. 1. Feet are as good as wings if you have to. Chickamauga. ... 3. In the night sleeping you forget whether you have wings or feet or neither. Chattahoochee. ... 6. Pity me. Far is far. Near is near. and there is no place like home when the yellow roses climb up the ladders and sing in the early summer. Pity me. Wednesday Evening In The Twilight And The Gloaming. .. Well, Wednesday Evening was the only one I noticed making any mention of the yellow roses in her telegram," Hatrack the Horse explained. Then the old man and the girl sat on the cracker box saying nothing, only listening to the yellow roses all on fire with early summer climbing up th ecrooked ladders, up and down and crossways, some of them leaning out and curving and nearly falling.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

It is the business of little minds to shrink.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Never will a time come when the most marvelous recent invention is as marvelous as a newborn child.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the women don't get you then the whiskey must.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Men of ideas vanish when freedom vanishes.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Such a Big miracle in such a tiny baby. Big things often have small beginnings A baby is God's opinion that life should go on.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

a women is like a tea bag.it's only when she is in hot water that you realize how strong she is.

By Anonym 18 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work-- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and the passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Money is power, freedom, a cushion, the root of all evil, the sum of blessings.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Carl Sandburg

I told her I felt kind of restless about the new poetry and I had high hopes the new poetry one way or another would be able to get at the real stuff of American life, slipping its fingers into the steel meshes and copper coils of it under the streets and over the houses and people and factories and groceries, conceding a fair batting average to Dante and Keats for what they wrote about love and roses and the moon.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Whenever a people or an institution forget its hard beginnings, it is beginning to decay.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The buffaloes are gone. And those who saw the buffaloes are gone.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The greatest certainty in life is death. The greatest uncertainty is the time.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

One of the greatest necessities in America is to discover creative solitude.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Anger is the most impotent of passions. It effects nothing it goes about, and hurts the one who is possessed by it more than the one against whom it is directed.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.

By Anonym 19 Sep

Carl Sandburg

To work hard, to live hard, to die hard, and then go to hell after all would be too damn hard.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The machine yes the machine never wastes anybody's time never watches the foreman never talks back.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

I have written some poetry that I don't understand myself.

By Anonym 15 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Beware of advice—even this.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

If the facts are against you, argue the law. If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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.

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Come on, you Do you want to live forever?

By Anonym 13 Sep

Carl Sandburg

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell me what is happiness. And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men. They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them. And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river and I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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.

By Anonym 16 Sep

Carl Sandburg

…it’s come over me clear that the last two or three years that in a group killing of a man, in a mobbing, the event reaches a point where all rationale is gone; such a term as “anarchist” and “traitor” or “Boche” or “Englander Schwein” disappears and they babble hysterically only one or two epithets, in our language usually a tenor of “Son of a Bitch” with a bass of “Cocksucker”. Since some of the finest blood of the human family goes this way poets and painters have a right to try to employ it or at least not kid themselves about what actually happened at Golgotha. Since I’ve talked with men who were in the trenches and since I’ve seen race riots I am suspicious that the sponge of vinegar on the spear is a faked legend and what probably happened, if the historicity of Jesus is ever established, is that they cut off his genital organ and stuck it in his mouth….

By Anonym 16 Sep

Carl Sandburg

I'm either going to be a writer or a bum.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

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

By Anonym 19 Sep

Carl Sandburg

These wheels within wheels These leaves folded in leaves These wheeling winds and winding leaves Those sprockets from those seeds This spiral shooting from that rainfall- What does a turning earth say to its axis? How should a melon say thanks Or a squash utter blessings?

By Anonym 19 Sep

Carl Sandburg

What is a stratosphere fourteen miles from the earth or a sunken glass house on the sea-bottom amid fish and feather- stars unless a bet that man can shove on beyond yesterday's record of man the hoper, the believer?

By Anonym 14 Sep

Carl Sandburg

The greatest cunning is to have none at all.