Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.
Those who love each other shall become invincible.
I am large, I contain multitudes
Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.