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Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.

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
Another
Grieving
Place
Search
Firsts
Somewhere
First
Missing
Failing
Stop
Waiting
Fetch
Keep
Encouraged

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Me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature.
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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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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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I dream in my dreams all the dreams of the other dreamers. And I become the other dreamers.
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The Americans, like the English, probably make love worse than any other race.
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Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it by yourself. It is not far. It is within reach. Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. Perhaps it is everywhere - on water and land.
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I tramp a perpetual journey.
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Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
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Re-examine all that you have been told... dismiss that which insults your soul.
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The Past -- the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf --the sleepers and the shadows! The past! the infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?
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Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
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When I give, I give myself.
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I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
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Wisdom is not finally tested by the schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.
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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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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 say that democracy can never prove itself beyond cavil, until it founds and luxuriantly grows its own forms of art, poems, schools, theology, displacing all that exists, or that has been produced anywhere in the past, under opposite influences.
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Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
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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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From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines.
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