And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

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

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

What has miserable, inefficient Mexico...to do with the great mission of peopling the New World with a noble race?

I know I am deathless…We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

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.

If you done it, it ain't bragging.