A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing lacking.

I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and can be none in the future, And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turn'd to beautiful results, And I will show that nothing can happen more beautiful than death, And I will thread a thread through my poems that time and events are compact, And that all the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.

Whoever degrades another degrades me.

The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.

The beautiful uncut hair of graves.

The Past -- the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf --the sleepers and the shadows! The past! the infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?