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Be not ashamed women, ... You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

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
Essayists
Gateways
Gates
Ashamed
Inspirational
Women
Body
Soul

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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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I hate commas in the wrong places.
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Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her shall I follow.
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Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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All truths wait in all things,/They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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Viewed freely, the English language is the accretion and growth of every dialect, race, and range of time, and is both the free and compacted composition of all.
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I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware, I sit content, And if each and all be aware, I sit content.
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Those who love each other shall become invincible.
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Are you the new person drawn toward me? To begin with, take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose.
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I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.
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Our leading men are not of much account and never have been, but the average of the people is immense, beyond all history. Sometimes I think in all departments, literature and art included, that will be the way our superiority will exhibit itself. We will not have great individuals or great leaders, but a great average bulk, unprecedentedly great.
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TO the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, Resist much, obey little, Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved, Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever after-ward resumes its liberty.
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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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My little notebooks were beginnings - they were the ground into which I dropped the seed... I would work in this way when I was out in the crowds, then put the stuff together at home.
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I tramp a perpetual journey.
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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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Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.
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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.
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I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.
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