I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, "Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true country - I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn."

The strongest and sweetest songs yet remain to be sung.

I will write the evangel-poem of comrades and of love.

And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love; But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another; (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd; Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

The future is no more uncertain than the present.