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I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower.
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
Grower
Temperate
Henceforth
Tread
Chaste
Steady
Early
World
Riser
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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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An individual is as superb as a nation when he has the qualities which make a superb nation.
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The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves.
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If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred.
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The female that loves unrequited sleeps, And the male that loves unrequited sleeps, The head of the money-maker that plotted all day sleeps, And the enraged and treacherous dispositions, all, all sleep.
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The earth does not argue, Is not pathetic, has no arrangements, Does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise, Makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures, Closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out.
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There is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth - but all is truth without exception And henceforth I will go celebrate any thing I see or am, And sing and laugh and deny nothing.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me.
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Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!
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Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
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And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.
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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 amazement of things-even the least particle!
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I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
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Love the earth and sun and animals, Despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, Stand up for the stupid and crazy, Devote your income and labor to others... And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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I exist as I am, that is enough.
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There is that indescribable freshness and unconsciousness about an illiterate person that humbles and mocks the power of the noblest expressive genius.
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