And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, / No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before. - Walt Whitman

I tramp a perpetual journey.

I do not call one greater and one smaller, that which fills it period and place is equal to any.

I should like to know, what is life?
Yes indeed — what is life? There’s something in the human critter which only needs to be nudged to reveal itself: something inestimably eloquent, precious: not always observed: it is a folded leaf: not absent because we fail to see it: the right man comes — the right hour; the leaf is lifted. The largest part of our human tragedies are humanly avoidable: they come from greed, from carelessness, from causes not catastrophic, elemental: with more radical good heart most of our woes would disappear.