The Americans, like the English, probably make love worse than any other race.

In nothing is there more evolution than the American mind.

Joy, shipmate, joy! (Pleased to my soul at death I cry), Our life is closed, our life begins, The long, long anchorage we leave, The ship is clear at last, she leaps! She swiftly courses from the shore, Joy, shipmate, joy!

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

For all these new and evolutionary facts, meanings, purposes, new poetic messages, new forms and expressions, are inevitable.

My ties and ballasts leave me - I travel - I sail - My elbows rest in the sea-gaps. I skirt the sierras. My palms cover continents - I am afoot with my vision.

Praised be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious.