The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.

I give you my hand, I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself?

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.

Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but we have it in the bulk of our people.

The beautiful uncut hair of graves.

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

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.