Your breath falls around me like dew - Walt Whitman

Come lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate death.

WHAT am I, after all, but a child, pleas’d with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over;
I stand apart to hear — it never tires me.
To you, your name also;
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound of your name?

"To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls."

-from "Song of the Open Road"