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Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

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
Tree
Walks
Melodious
Upon
Descend
Never
Trees
Large
Walking
Thoughts
Walk

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There's a man in the world who is never turned down, whatever he chances to stray he gets the glad hand in the populous town, or out where the farmers makes hay he's greeted with pleasure on deserts of sand, and deep in the aisles of the woods wherever he goes there's a welcoming hand-he's the man who delivers the goods.
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And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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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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I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
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Long have you timidly waded Holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, Rise again, nod to me, shout, And laughingly dash with your hair.
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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 know perfectly well my own egotism.
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Resist much, obey little.
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Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, blood, even assassination should so condense - perhaps only really lastingly condense - a Nationality.
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Some people are so much sunshine to the square inch.
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I swear the earth shall surely be complete to him or her who shall be complete, The earth remains jagged and broken only to him or her who remains jagged and broken.
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Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems
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I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.
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I heard what was said of the universe, heard it and heard it of several thousand years it is middling well as far as it goes - but is that all?
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I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's-self is.
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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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Pointing to another world will never stop vice among us shedding light over this world can alone help us.
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I sing the body that is electric! I celebrate the Self yet to be unveiled!
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The truest and greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough) can never again, in the English language, be express'd in arbitrary and rhyming metre, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion.
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Great is the faith of the flush of knowledge and of the investigation of the depths of qualities and things.
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