The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.
So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.
O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.
This face is a dog's snout sniffing for garbage, snakes nest in that mouth, I hear the sibilant threat.
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.