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I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
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
Barbaric
Teens
Healing
Sound
World
Rooftops
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I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight orgies of young men, I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers.
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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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I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
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Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
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Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
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My words itch at your ears till you understand them
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Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, it provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
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Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
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If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.
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All the past we leave behind We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world, Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O Pioneers!
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I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
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The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
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Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
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Perhaps the efforts of the true poets, founders, religions, literatures, all ages, have been, and ever will be, our time and times to come, essentially the same - to bring people back from their present strayings and sickly abstractions, to the costless, average, divine, original concrete.
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The future is no more uncertain than the present.
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I have no mockings or arguments I witness and wait.
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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
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The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.
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And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.
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