I could safely declare, I am an idealist... I believe in everything - I am only looking for proofs.

I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.

I have in later years taken to Euclid, Whitehead, Bertrand Russell, in an elemental way.

In these times you have to be an optimist to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.

I remember the Chillicothe ballplayers grappling the Long Island ball players in a sixteen-inning game ended by darkness. And the shoulders of the Chillicothe players were a red smoke against the sundown and the shoulders of the Rock Island players were a yellow smoke against the sundown. And the umpire's voice was hoarse calling balls and strikes and outs and the umpire's throat fought in the dust for a song.

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

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