A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.

I know I am deathless. No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before. I laugh at what you call dissolution, and I know the amplitude of time.

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find."

Be curious, not judgmental.

For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

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