"When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin... in the dust, in the cool tombs."

“Drum on your drums, batter on your banjos, sob on the long cool winding saxophones. Go to it, O jazzmen.”

“Lay me on an anvil, O God. Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar. Let me pry loose old walls. Let me lift and loosen old foundations.”

“Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work — I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now?”

“The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches, and then moves on.”

“Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders.”

“I am the people — the mob — the crowd — the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?”