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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
Rooftops
Barbaric
Teens
Healing
Sound
World

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I do not seek good fortune - I am good fortune!
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Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.
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A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.
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O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, / The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won
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I think of few heroic actions, which cannot be traced to the artistical impulse. He who does great deeds, does them from his innate sensitiveness to moral beauty.
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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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I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
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Keep your face always toward the sunshine everything could be worse but isn't and so we are justified in being grateful - and shadows everything could be better but isn't and so it is easy to be bitter 'unless you decide to look on the bright side will fall behind you.
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And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
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The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.
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O captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every wrack The prize we sought is won The port is near, the bells I hear The people all exulting While follow eyes, the steady keel The vessel grim and daring But Heart! Heart! Heart! O the bleeding drops of red Where on the deck my captain lies Fallen cold and dead.
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All is procession the universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
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I think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost .
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I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for.
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Do anything, but let it produce joy.
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From this hour, freedom! Going where I like, my own master.
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I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
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If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.
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