Camerado! This is no book; who touches this touches a man.

Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.

All is procession; the universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.

So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.