The moon gives you light, and the bugles and the drums give you music, and my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, my heart gives you love.

The beautiful uncut hair of graves.

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

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

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

The question, O me! so sad, recurring - What good amid these, O me, O life? That you are here - that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.