Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

“Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.” So spoke Carl Sandburg, a poet of the common people, whose words carried the weight of both the marketplace and the meadow. What seems at first a playful paradox is, in truth, a profound revelation. For hyacinths are the fragrance of beauty, the bloom of the spirit, the symbol of all that uplifts and exalts. And biscuits are the bread of life, the sustenance of the body, the daily portion without which no man can endure. In the union of these two—the sublime and the simple, the lofty and the lowly—we discover the heart of poetry itself.

The ancients knew that man does not live by bread alone, yet neither can he live by beauty alone. In times of hunger, a flower will not feed the body; in times of despair, bread alone cannot nourish the soul. Thus, Sandburg teaches that poetry is born from both: the music of the heavens interwoven with the dust of the earth. To create true verse is not to choose between the banquet of the gods or the crumbs of the poor, but to weave them together into a single fabric of meaning.

Think of the great Tolstoy, who wrote of emperors and peasants with the same hand. He showed us that war and peace are not only matters of kings and generals, but also of mothers stirring soup and farmers tilling their land. In his vast epic, the hyacinths of noble thought and the biscuits of humble life came together, revealing a world whole and complete. Just as Sandburg declared, greatness in art comes not from severing heaven from earth, but from binding them so tightly that neither can be separated.

Consider also the life of Abraham Lincoln, a man whom Sandburg himself revered and wrote of. Born in a log cabin, he knew well the taste of biscuits baked in poverty’s fire. Yet he spoke words that soared like hyacinths, words that turned the sorrow of a nation into hope. “With malice toward none, with charity for all”—these were not the empty perfumes of idle speech, but blossoms rooted in the soil of hardship. His life became the very embodiment of Sandburg’s saying: simple bread and radiant flower joined together in the act of leading a people through their darkest hour.

Thus we see: the poet must never flee into the clouds, forgetting the hunger of the people. Nor must he bow only to necessity, forgetting the hunger of the soul. The true synthesis of life, and of art, is to honor both. To speak of love while remembering labor, to sing of dreams while remembering hunger, to praise the stars while planting seeds in the ground. That balance is not weakness, but strength. It is the mark of wisdom.

The lesson is clear: seek not beauty apart from usefulness, nor usefulness apart from beauty. In your own life, let your work be bread for the world, but let your spirit bloom like a flower in its midst. Do not say, “I must choose between survival and joy.” Say instead, “I will weave both into my living.” Let your speech, your craft, your actions be like poetry—a weaving of hyacinths and biscuits—so that you nourish both the body and the soul of those around you.

And so, children of the future, walk forth with this teaching: When you labor, do not forget to dream. When you dream, do not forget to labor. Let the fragrance of the hyacinth and the strength of the biscuit dwell together in your heart. For this is the path of balance, of truth, of the highest art. It is not only the way of the poet. It is the way of being fully human.