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

Women sit or move to and fro, some old, some young, / The young are beautiful--but the old are more beautiful than the young.

I tramp a perpetual journey.

In all people I see myself - none more, and not one a barleycorn less; And the good or bad I say of myself, I say of them.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.

I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

I say that democracy can never prove itself beyond cavil, until it founds and luxuriantly grows its own forms of art, poems, schools, theology, displacing all that exists, or that has been produced anywhere in the past, under opposite influences.