There was a child went forth everyday, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead.... nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

I give you my hand, I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself?

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?

I Think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost . The body sluggish, aged, cold, the ember left from earlier fires shall duly flame again.

A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

To the real artist in humanity, what are called bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all.