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?
I never take my own side in a quarrel.
No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.
God once declared He was true And then took the veil and withdrew.
I am one who has been acquainted with the night
I hate the idea that you ought to read the whole of anybody.
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.
If the writer does not cry, the reader does not cry.
The snake stood up for evil in the Garden.
I go to school the youth to learn the future.
Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.
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.
The poet, as everyone knows, must strike his individual note sometime between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. He may hold it a long time, or a short time, but it is then that he must strike it or never. School and college have been conducted with the almost express purpose of keeping him busy with something else till the danger of his ever creating anything is past.
God turned to speak to me (Don't anybody laugh); God found I wasn't there At least not over half.
Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth.
I have remained resentful to this day When any but myself presumed to say That there was anything I couldn't be.
The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people.
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.
Skepticism, is that anything more than we used to mean when we said, Well, what have we here?
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.
There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.
When work becomes play, and play becomes your work, your life unfolds.
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