That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.

In nothing is there more evolution than the American mind.

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree toad is a chef-d'oeurve for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels!

The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.

When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand, … Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further, I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave, But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

I think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost .