Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!
There is no God any more divine than Yourself.
All truths wait in all things.
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.
Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.