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

— Carl Sandburg

Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance.

— Carl Sandburg

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

— Carl Sandburg

Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

— Carl Sandburg

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

— Carl Sandburg

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.

— Carl Sandburg

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door leaving those who look through to guess what is seen during a moment.

— Carl Sandburg

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

— Carl Sandburg

Read the dictionary from A to Gizzard today. Get a vocabulary. Brush up on your diction. See whether wisdom is just a lot of language.

— Carl Sandburg

Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.

— Carl Sandburg