Peace is always beautiful.

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

Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.

And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles

The Americans, like the English, probably make love worse than any other race.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.