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All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.

Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: May 31
Died: 1892
Died: March 26
Editor
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Nurse
Poet
Writer
West Hills
New York
Walter Whitman
May
Frankness
Candor
Forgiven
Faults
Blame
Perfect

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Praised be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious.
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Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death.
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Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her shall I follow.
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I loafe and invite my soul.
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I will not descend among professors and capitalists.
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Unscrew the locks from the doors ! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs !
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When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.
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Human bodies are words, myriads of words, (In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-shaped, natural, gay, Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)
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All is procession the universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
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Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
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The work for giants...to serve well the guns!
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Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!
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In the confusion we stay with each other, happy to be together, speaking without uttering a single word.
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All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch).
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O lands! O all so dear to me - what you are, I become part of that, whatever it is.
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Are you the new person drawn toward me?
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An electric chain seems to vibrate, as it were, between our brain and him or her preserved there [in a Daguerreotype] so well by the limner's cunning. Time, space, both are annihilated, and we identify the semblance with the reality.
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Silence? What can New York-noisy, roaring, rumbling, tumbling, bustling, story, turbulent New York-have to do with silence? Amid the universal clatter, the incessant din of business, the all swallowing vortex of the great money whirlpool-who has any, even distant, idea of the profound repose......of silence?
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I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
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When I give, I give myself.
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