In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.

The art of art... is simplicity.

All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch).

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.

The work for giants...to serve well the guns!

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I am larger, better than I thought; I did not know I held so much goodness.