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I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

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
Loosened
Tied
Mouth
Begins
Tongue
Mouths
Mines
Mine

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A man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman.
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To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
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I swear I will never henceforth have to do with the faith that tells the best! I will have to do only with that faith that leaves the best untold.
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Now I will do nothing but listen to accrue what I hear into this song. To let sounds contribute toward it. I hear the sound I love. The sound of the human voice. I hear all sounds running together.
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To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.
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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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I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.
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But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.
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I hate commas in the wrong places.
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I know perfectly well my own egotism.
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If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred.
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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it.
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Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road.
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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.
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O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!
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A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
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And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.
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The art of art, the glory of expression, is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity, and the sunlight of letters is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity-nothing can make up for excess, or for the lack of definiteness.
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There is that indescribable freshness and unconsciousness about an illiterate person that humbles and mocks the power of the noblest expressive genius.
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Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.
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