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

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

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.

I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.

We were together. I forget the rest.