I will write the evangel-poem of comrades and of love.
I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, All all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward.
The ecstasy is so short but the forgetting is so long.
The Americans, like the English, probably make love worse than any other race.
Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.
The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves.