Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling. - Walt Whitman

أن أنجو، طليقا، من مراسي الآخرين وأغلالهم!
أن أنطلق حرّا!
أن أحب حرّا!
أن أندفع جسورّا خطرّا!
أن أغازل الدمار بالسخرية، بالإغراء!
أن أرتفع
أن أثب إلى سماوات الحب التي تنتظر!
أن أسمو هناك ثمل الروح!
أن أضيع إن كان لابد من الضياع!
أن أطعم بقيا الحياة ساعة امتلاء وحرية!
ساعة قصيرة من الجنون والفرح.

Books are to be call’d for, and supplied, on the assumption that the process of reading is nor a half-sleep, but, in highest sense, an exercise, a gymnast’s struggle; that the reader is to do something for himself, must be on the alert, must himself or herself construct indeed the poem, argument, history, metaphysical essay — the text furnishing the hints, the clue, the start or frame-work. Not the book needs so much to be the complete thing, but the reader of the book does. That were to make a nation of supple and athletic minds well-train’d, intuitive, used to depend on themselves, not on a few coteries of writers.

This is the female form, vapor,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heavaen or fear'd of hell, are now consumed, Mad filament, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable...