Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look, The fields his study, Nature was his book.

Only with the tools of production in their own hands could the workers ever hope to control their own lives and receive the fruits of their labor.

Some of his own closeness to nature, his great love for human beings, was passed on by Whitman to all of us who knew and loved him.

The capitalist class shoots down mothers and children. It stops at nothing, no matter how monstrous, to prevent the organization of the workers.

I have always loved to sit in ferry and railroad stations and watch the people, to walk on crowded streets, just walk along among the people, and see their faces, to be among people on street cars and trains and boats.

I shall never forget the despair and agony on the parents' faces on the awful day of the funeral when the 13 little children, victims not only of John D. Rockefeller, but of the government of the state of Colorado were buried.

I think Whitman more than any other poet possessed the gift of revealing to others the beauty of everything around us, the beauty of nature, the beauty of human beings.