A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the earth and sky, Voice of a mighty dying tree in the Redwood forest dense.... [T]he wood-spirits came from their haunts of a thousand years, to join the refrain; But in my soul I plainly heard. Murmuring out of its myriad leaves, Down from its lofty top, rising two hundred feet high, Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs - out of its foot-thick bark, That chant of the seasons and time - chant, not of the past only, but of the future.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.

And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

As soon as histories are properly told there is no more need of romances.

Agonies are one of my changes of garments.

I will not descend among professors and capitalists.

I speak the password primeval; I give the sign of democracy.