Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour. - Walt Whitman

Have you ever thought how much is in the negative quality of nature — the negative — the simply loafing, doing nothing, worrying about nothing, living out of doors and getting fresh air, plenty of sleep — letting everything else take care of itself?

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,
And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,
I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

HOW solemn, as one by one,
As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty — as the men file by where I stand;
As the faces, the masks appear — as I glance at the faces, studying the masks;
(As I glance upward out of this page, studying you, dear friend, whoever you are;)
How solemn the thought of my whispering soul, to each in the ranks, and to you;
I see behind each mask, that wonder, a kindred soul;
O the bullet could never kill what you really are, dear friend,
Nor the bayonet stab what you really are:
... The soul! yourself I see, great as any, good as the best,
Waiting, secure and content, which the bullet could never kill,
Nor the bayonet stab, O friend!