But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?

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.

Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy.

I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.

It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.

Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.

Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.