And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?

There is no place like it, no place with an atom of its glory, pride, and exultancy. It lays its hand upon a man's bowels; he grows drunk with ecstasy; he grows young and full of glory, he feels that he can never die.

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.

Produce great men, the rest follows.

Are you the new person drawn toward me?

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 refuse putting from me the best that I am.