In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed perfection. - Walt Whitman

I have learned that to be with those I like is enough

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.

Great is language . . . . it is the mightiest of the sciences,
It is the fulness and color and form and diversity of the earth . . . . and of men and women . . . . and of all qualities and processes;
It is greater than wealth . . . . it is greater than buildings or ships or religions or paintings or music.