Explore Quotes by Carl Sandburg

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.

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.

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.

Nothing happens... but first a dream.

There is only one man in the world and his name is All Men. There is only one woman in the world and her name is All Women. There is only one child in the world and the child's name is All Children.

Beware of advice-even this.

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

A liar goes in fine clothes, a liar goes in rags, a liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.

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

Time is the coin of our live. We must take care how we spend it.

The fog comes on little cat feet.

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 passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.

There is a warning love sends and the cost of it is never written till long afterward.

Time is the coin of life. Only you can determine how it will be spent.

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.

Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.

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.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

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

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor_x000D__x000D_ and city on silent haunches and then moves on.