Carl Sandburg

Under the harvest moon,_x000D_ _x000D_ When the soft silver_x000D_ _x000D_ Drips shimmering_x000D_ _x000D_ Over the garden nights,_x000D_ _x000D_ Death, the gray mocker,_x000D_ _x000D_ Comes and whispers to you_x000D_ _x000D_ As a beautiful friend_x000D_ _x000D_ Who remembers.

Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.

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

Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.

The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

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.

There are men and women so lonely they believe God, too, is lonely.

After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars

Somebody's little girl- how easy it is to make a sob story over who she once was and who she now is.