So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.

This is the city, and I am one of the citizens/Whatever interests the rest interests me

And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.

It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.

The past, the future, majesty, love - if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

The greatest country, the richest country, is not that which has the most capitalists, monopolists, immense grabbings, vast fortunes, with its sad, sad soil of extreme, degrading, damning poverty, but the land in which there are the most homesteads, freeholds - where wealth does not show such contrasts high and low, where all men have enough - a modest living- and no man is made possessor beyond the sane and beautiful necessities.