Life death all does end and each day dies with sleep.

The Best ideal is the true and other truth is none. All glory be ascribed to the holy Three in One.

What is all this juice and all this joy?

ELECTED Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.

But . . . I may as well say what I should not otherwise have said, that I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman’s mind to be more like my own than any other man’s living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession.

Even with one companion ecstasy is almost banished.

Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.