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The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.

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
America
States
Essentially
Poem
Greatest
United

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The art of art... is simplicity.
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Old age: The estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the Great Sea.
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Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
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O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, / The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won
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I was in the midst of it all - saw war where war is worst - not on the battlefields, no - in the hospitals ... there I mixed with it: and now I say God damn the wars - allw ars: God damn every war: God damn 'em! God damn 'em!
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I do not doubt but the majest and beauty of the world are latent in any iota of the world I do not doubt there is far more in trivialities, insects, vulgar persons, slaves, dwarfs, weeds, rejected refuse than I have supposed.
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I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
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But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
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I say no body of men are fit to make Presidents, judges and generals, unless they themselves supply the best specimens of the same and that supplying one or two such specimens illuminates the whole body for a thousand years.
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Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is Good steadily hastening towards immortality, And the vast all that is called Evil I saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead.
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Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
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Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
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In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.
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Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!
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There will soon be no more priests... They may wait awhile, perhaps a generation or two, dropping off by degrees. A superior breed shall take their place. A new order shall arise and they shall be the priests of man, and every man shall be his own priest.
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A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
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A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing is lacking, Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.
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Whoever you are, motion and reflection are especially for you, The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
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I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
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