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The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.

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
Judge
Judging
Sun
Poet
Fall
Judges
Around
Helpless
Thing
Judgement
Falling

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Silence? What can New York-noisy, roaring, rumbling, tumbling, bustling, story, turbulent New York-have to do with silence? Amid the universal clatter, the incessant din of business, the all swallowing vortex of the great money whirlpool-who has any, even distant, idea of the profound repose......of silence?
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What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior?
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The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
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So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.
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When I give, I give myself.
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Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
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I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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There is no God any more divine than Yourself.
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Dismiss whatever insults your soul.
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Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
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I am larger, better than I thought I did not know I held so much goodness.
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Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
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O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.
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The shallow, as intimated, consider liberty a release from all law, from every constraint. The wise see in it, on the contrary, the potent Law of Laws.
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Over all the sky - the sky! Far, far out of reach, studded with eternal stars.
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What has miserable, inefficient Mexico...to do with the great mission of peopling the New World with a noble race?
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Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
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I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
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I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
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