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I tramp a perpetual journey.

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
Journey
Tramp
Tramps
Perpetual
Travel

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Camden was originally an accident, but I shall never be sorry I was left over in Camden. It has brought me blessed returns.
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I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear.
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This is the city, and I am one of the citizens/Whatever interests the rest interests me
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What a devil art thou, Poverty! How many desires - how many aspirations after goodness and truth - how many noble thoughts, loving wishes toward our fellows, beautiful imaginings thou hast crushed under thy heel, without remorse or pause!
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You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side...The Bending forward and backward of the rowers...
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The genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges, or churches, or parlors, nor even in its newspapers or inventors, but always most in the common people.
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Forsake all inhibitions, Pursue thy dreams.
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I heard what was said of the universe, heard it and heard it of several thousand years it is middling well as far as it goes - but is that all?
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Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is Good steadily hastening towards immortality, And the vast all that is called Evil I saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead.
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Nothing endures but personal qualities.
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I have sometimes thought that the laws ought not to punish those actions of evil which are committed when the senses are steeped in intoxication.
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What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
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Of all mankind the great poet is the equable man. Not in him but off from him things are grotesque or eccentric or fail of their sanity.
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That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
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You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here
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The work for giants...to serve well the guns!
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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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O lands! O all so dear to me - what you are, I become part of that, whatever it is.
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Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.
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