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.

The work for giants...to serve well the guns!

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here

I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware, I sit content, And if each and all be aware, I sit content.

Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

Note, to-day, an instructive, curious spectacle and conflict. Science, (twin, in its fields, of Democracy in its)—Science, testing absolutely all thoughts, all works, has already burst well upon the world—a sun, mounting, most illuminating, most glorious—surely never again to set. But against it, deeply entrench'd, holding possession, yet remains, (not only through the churches and schools, but by imaginative literature, and unregenerate poetry,) the fossil theology of the mythic-materialistic, superstitious, untaught and credulous, fable-loving, primitive ages of humanity.

Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.