I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuffed with the stuff that is course, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine.

I will write the evangel-poem of comrades and of love.

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

Thunder on! Stride on! Democracy. Strike with vengeful stroke!

Me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature.

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

The road to wisdom is paved with excess. The mark of a true writer is their ability to mystify the familiar and familiarize the strange.