Each of us inevitable; Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.

I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.

In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.

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.

I dance with the dancers.

When I give, I give myself.

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done.