Now I see the secret of making the best person: it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.

Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, it provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.

Old age: The estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the Great Sea.

At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd