I come from nothing: but from where come the undying thoughts I bear?

Red has been praised for its nobility of the color of life. But the true color of life is not red. Red is the color of violence, or of life broken open, edited, and published. Or if red is indeed the color of life, it is so only on condition that it is not seen. Once fully visible, red is the color of life violated, and in the act of betrayal and of waste.

If life is not always poetical, it is at least metrical.

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn, / Unseen, this colorless sky of folded showers, / And folded winds...

But, visiting Sea, your love doth press / And reach in further than you know, / And fills all these; and, when you go, / There's loneliness in loneliness.

The traveling heart went free / With endless streams; that strife was stopped; / And down a thousand vales I dropped, / I flowed to Italy.

There is something very cheerful and courageous in the setting-out of a child on a journey of speech with so small baggage and with so much confidence.