I sing the body electric.

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?

There will soon be no more priests... They may wait awhile, perhaps a generation or two, dropping off by degrees. A superior breed shall take their place. A new order shall arise and they shall be the priests of man, and every man shall be his own priest.

People who serve you without love get even behind your back.

Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death.

To the real artist in humanity, what are called bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all.

But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?