And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles - Walt Whitman

What do you seek, so pensive and silent? What do you need, Camerado? Dear son! do you think it is love? Listen, dear son — listen, America, daughter or son! It is a painful thing to love a man or woman to excess — and yet it satisfies — it is great; But there is something else very great — it makes the whole coincide; It, magnificent, beyond materials, with continuous hands, sweeps and provides for all.

I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things to be.

Say on, sayers! sing on, singers! Delve! mould! pile the words of the earth! Work on, age after age, nothing is to be lost, It may have to wait long, but it will certainly come in use, When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.