The whole purpose of the universe is unerringly aimed at one thing - you.

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, with many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle - and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.

There is that indescribable freshness and unconsciousness about an illiterate person that humbles and mocks the power of the noblest expressive genius.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear.

I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.

Oh, to be alive in such an age, when miracles are everywhere, and every inch of common air throbs a tremendous prophecy, of greater marvels yet to be.