What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds, crying down in the north wind in September—acres of birds spotting the air going south? Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way? — Carl Sandburg, from section “Falltime” in “Redhaw Winds,” Poetry (October 1918)
Read the dictionary from A to Izzard today. Get a vocabulary. Brush up on your diction. See whether wisdom is just a lot of language. ― Carl Sandburg, from “Is Wisdom a Lot of Language,” Honey and Salt. (Harvest Books; Edition Unstated edition April 12, 1967)
Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away. ― Carl Sandburg
WISHES left on your lips The mark of their wings. Regrets fly kites in your eyes. — Carl Sandburg, “Wistful,” Smoke and Steel. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, December 1, 2004) Originally published January 1st 1960.
Nothing happens unless first we dream. — Carl Sandburg
I speak of new cities and new people. I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes. I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down, a sun dropped in the west. I tell you there is nothing in the world only an ocean of to-morrows, a sky of to-morrows. — Carl Sandburg, from… Continue reading Carl Sandburg
I HAVE ransacked the encyclopedias And slid my fingers among topics and titles Looking for you. And the answer comes slow. There seems to be no answer. I shall ask the next banana peddler the who and the why of it. Or—the iceman with his… Continue reading Carl Sandburg