I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from, The scent of these armpits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

Books are to be called for and supplied on the assumption that the process of reading is not a half-sleep, but in the highest sense an exercise, a gymnastic struggle; that the reader is to do something for himself.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I loved so well.

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero.

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.