Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead.... nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

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

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it.

Each of us inevitable; Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.

And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.

There will never be any more perfection than there is now.

The strongest and sweetest songs yet remain to be sung.