A man writes to throw off the poison which he has accumulated because of his false way of life. He is trying to recapture his innocence, yet all he succeeds in doing (by writing) is to inoculate the world with a virus of his disillusionment. No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in.

Out yonder they may curse, revile, and torture one another, defile all the human instincts, make a shambles of creation (if it were in their power), but here, no, here, it is unthinkable, here there is abiding peace, the peace of God, and the serene security created by a handful of good neighbors living at one with the creature world.

Even if it doesn't work, there is something healthy and invigorating about direct action

The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art.

If one believes, then miracles occur.

Why change the world? Change worlds!

To make living itself an art, that is the goal.