Something there is more immortal even than the stars.

I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

Americans should know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.

Have you not learned the most in your life from those with whom you disagreed - those who saw it differently from you?

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.

A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets; A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.

I inhale great draught of space...the east and west are mine...and the north and south are mine...I am grandeur than I thought...I did not know i held so much goodness.