O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
All music is is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments.
The past, the future, majesty, love - if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.
When I give, I give myself.
A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets; A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.