And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and can be none in the future, And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn'd to beautiful results, And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death, And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are compact, And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.

So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.

I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content. One world is aware, and by the far the largest to me, and that is myself, And whether I come to my own today or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness, I can wait.

To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

If you done it, it ain't bragging.

The art of art... is simplicity.