He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,Another hand the standard wave,Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealedThe blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born

So live that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Arms clasped around them, the knees support my forehead and I don't know why so warm the eyes of the sky seem and so deep... they tell me to sleep... I am not yet born, a bird waiting for its flight...

The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.