I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.

To drive free, to love free, to court destruction with taunts, to feed the remainder of life with one hour of fullness and freedom - one brief hour of madness and joy.

In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.

Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!

O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, / The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won