“A great nose may be an indexOf a great soul”

“My nose is Gargantuan! You little Pig-snout, you tiny Monkey-Nostrils, you virtually invisible Pekinese-Puss, don't you realize that a nose like mine is both scepter and orb, a monument to me superiority? A great nose is the banner of a great man, a generous heart, a towering spirit, an expansive soul--such as I unmistakably am, and such as you dare not to dream of being, with your bilious weasel's eyes and no nose to keep them apart! With your face as lacking in all distinction--as lacking, I say, in interest, as lacking in pride, in imagination, in honesty, in lyricism--in a word, as lacking in nose as that other offensively bland expanse at the opposite end of your cringing spine--which I now remove from my sight by stringent application of my boot!”

“My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own.”

“All our souls are written in our eyes.”

“What would you have me do? Seek for the patronage of some great man,And like a creeping vine on a tall treeCrawl upward, where I cannot stand alone?No thank you! Dedicate, as others do,Poems to pawnbrokers? Be a buffoonIn the vile hope of teasing out a smileOn some cold face? No thank you! Eat a toadFor breakfast every morning? Make my kneesCallous, and cultivate a supple spine,-Wear out my belly grovelling in the dust?No thank you! Scratch the back of any swineThat roots up gold for me? Tickle the hornsOf Mammon with my left hand, while my rightToo proud to know his partner's business,Takes in the fee? No thank you! Use the fireGod gave me to burn incense all day longUnder the nose of wood and stone? No thank you!Shall I go leaping into ladies' lapsAnd licking fingers?-or-to change the form-Navigating with madrigals for oars,My sails full of the sighs of dowagers?No thank you! Publish verses at my ownExpense? No thank you! Be the patron saintOf a small group of literary soulsWho dine together every Tuesday? NoI thank you! Shall I labor night and dayTo build a reputation on one song,And never write another? Shall I findTrue genius only among Geniuses,Palpitate over little paragraphs,And struggle to insinuate my nameIn the columns of the Mercury?No thank you! Calculate, scheme, be afraid,Love more to make a visit than a poem,Seek introductions, favors, influences?-No thank you! No, I thank you! And againI thank you!-But...To sing, to laugh, to dreamTo walk in my own way and be alone,Free, with a voice that means manhood-to cock my hatWhere I choose-At a word, a Yes, a No, To fight-or write.To travel any roadUnder the sun, under the stars, nor doubtIf fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne-Never to make a line I have not heardIn my own heart; yet, with all modestyTo say:"My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own."So, when I win some triumph, by some chance,Render no share to Caesar-in a word,I am too proud to be a parasite,And if my nature wants the germ that growsTowering to heaven like the mountain pine,Or like the oak, sheltering multitudes-I stand, not high it may be-but alone!”

“I have a different idea of elegance. I don't dress like a fop, it's true, but my moral grooming is impeccable. I never appear in public with a soiled conscience, a tarnished honor, threadbare scruples, or an insult that I haven't washed away. I'm always immaculately clean, adorned with independence and frankness. I may not cut a stylish figure, but I hold my soul erect. I wear my deeds as ribbons, my wit is sharper then the finest mustache, and when I walk among men I make truths ring like spurs.”

“To sing, to laugh, to dream, to walk in my own way and be alone, free, with an eye to see things as they are, a voice that means manhood—to cock my hat where I choose—At a word, a Yes, a No, to fight—or write. To travel any road under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne—Never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart; yet, with all modesty to say: "My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.”