Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.

Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?

The poetry of speech.

There are four questions of value in life, Don Octavio. What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.