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The real war will never get in the books.

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
Never
Seething
Books
War
Book
Real

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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.
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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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I keep thinking about you every few minutes all day.
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NOT I - NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.
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All is procession the universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
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Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.
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People who serve you without love get even behind your back.
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I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
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I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
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Strong and content I travel the open road.
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Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?
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Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn, A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.
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We convince by our presence.
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For all these new and evolutionary facts, meanings, purposes, new poetic messages, new forms and expressions, are inevitable.
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Where the earth is, we are.
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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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I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
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I sing the body electric.
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