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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
Real
Never
Seething
Books
War
Book

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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
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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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Day full-blown and splendid-day of the immense sun, action, ambition, laughter, The Night follows close with millions of suns, and sleep and restoring darkness.
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God is a mean-spirited, pugnacious bully bent on revenge against His children for failing to live up to his impossible standards.
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Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems
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O joy of suffering! To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted! To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand! To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! To be indeed a God!
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I am an acme of things accomplished, and I an encloser of things to be.
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Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)
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Out of every fruition of success, no matter what, comes forth something to make a new effort necessary.
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Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.
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Books are to be called for and supplied on the assumption that the process of reading is not a half-sleep, but in the highest sense an exercise, a gymnastic struggle that the reader is to do something for himself.
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I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
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Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
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I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
Walt Whitman
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To me the sea is a continual miracle The fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships, with men in them, what stranger miracles are there?
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All music is is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments.
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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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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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To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
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