The art of art... is simplicity.

There is no week nor day nor hour when tyranny may not enter upon this country, if the people lose their roughness and spirit of defiance.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

Be not ashamed women, ... You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.

I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower.

Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me.