this is thy hour o soul, thy free flight into the wordless, away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, night, sleep, death and the stars.

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

Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn, A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding; And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.

Be not ashamed women, ... You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets; A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.

Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find."

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.