The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.

By writing at the instant, the very heartbeat of life is caught.

Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.

And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles

Henceforth I ask not good fortune. I myself am good fortune.

I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.