I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.

I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.

I tramp a perpetual journey.

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

What beauty there is in words; what a lurking curious charm in the sound some words.

I am satisfied ... I see, dance, laugh, sing.