To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, every inch of space is a miracle, every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same; every spear of grass-the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, all these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

I love doctors and hate their medicine.

Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.

Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.

And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles

How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!

I sing the body electric.