O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!

Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.

O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!

I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul.

Why who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know nothing else but miracles, whether they be animals feeding in the fields, Or, birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me, miracles.

In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.