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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

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
Verge
Usual
Discover
Mistake

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Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
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Each of us inevitable Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.
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Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all.
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I am larger, better than I thought I did not know I held so much goodness.
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There was a child went forth everyday, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
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I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
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I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
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A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
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If you done it, it ain't bragging.
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Camerado! This is no book who touches this touches a man.
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Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me.
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Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, you express me better than I can express myself.
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The road to wisdom is paved with excess. The mark of a true writer is their ability to mystify the familiar and familiarize the strange.
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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.
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In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.
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