It was far in the sameness of the wood; I was running with joy on the Demon's trail, Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
Humor is the most engaging cowardice.
I never take my own side in a quarrel.
I hate the idea that you ought to read the whole of anybody.
If the writer does not cry, the reader does not cry.
The snake stood up for evil in the Garden.
God once declared He was true And then took the veil and withdrew.
No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.
I go to school the youth to learn the future.
Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.
You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.
I am one who has been acquainted with the night
Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.
What are we? Young or new? We must be something.
One age is like another for the soul.
The people I want to hear about are the people who take risks.
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round, And only by one's going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
A true sonnet goes eight lines and then takes a turn for better or worse and goes six or eight lines more.
God turned to speak to me (Don't anybody laugh); God found I wasn't there At least not over half.
I have remained resentful to this day When any but myself presumed to say That there was anything I couldn't be.
But not gold in commercial quantities, Just enough gold to make the engagement rings And marriage rings of those who owned the farm. What gold more innocent could one have asked for?
Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth.
The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
I heard someone say he [Carl Sandburg] was the kind of writer who had everything to gain and nothing to lose by being translated into another language.
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