The proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.

Henceforth I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune.

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.

For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

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

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