And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.... And as to you corpse, I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips — I reach to the polished breasts of melons. And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.

I sing the body electric.

How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!

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

Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.

A simple separate person is not contained between his hat and his boots.

There will soon be no more priests... They may wait awhile, perhaps a generation or two, dropping off by degrees. A superior breed shall take their place. A new order shall arise and they shall be the priests of man, and every man shall be his own priest.