I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

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

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.

If there were nothing else of Abraham Lincoln for history to stamp him with, it is enough to send him with his wreath to the memory of all future time, that he endured that hour, that day, bitterer than gall - indeed a crucifixion day - that it did not conquer him - that he unflinchingly stemmed it, and resolved to lift himself and the Union out of it.

I sing the body electric.

I keep thinking about you every few minutes all day.