whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud, - Walt Whitman

Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touched from; The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer, This head is more than churches or bibles or creeds.

[The poet] is no arguer . . . he is judgment. He judges not as the judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.

I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, "Do not weep for me,
This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true country—I now go back there,
I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn."