I do not call one greater and one smaller, That which fills its period and place is equal to any. - Walt Whitman

Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?

Agonies are one of my changes of garments;
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels . . . . I myself become the wounded person,
My hurt turns livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.

Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.