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I and this mystery, here we stand.

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
Stand
Mystery

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Ah little recks the laborer, How near his work is holding him to God, The loving Laborer through space and time
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Dismiss whatever insults your soul.
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Shut not your doors to me proud libraries.
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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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Without enough wilderness America will change. Democracy, with its myriad personalities and increasing sophistication, must be fibred and vitalized by regular contact with outdoor growths - animals, trees, sun warmth and free skies - or it will dwindle and pale.
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The future is no more uncertain than the present.
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I speak the password primeval I give the sign of democracy.
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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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The truest and greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough) can never again, in the English language, be express'd in arbitrary and rhyming metre, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion.
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Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
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I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.
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Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, it provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
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My words itch at your ears till you understand them
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And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the other.
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I loafe and invite my soul.
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Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.
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All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments. It is not the violins and the cornets-it is not the oboe nor the beating drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza-nor that of the women's chorus it is nearer and farther than they.
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I keep thinking about you every few minutes all day.
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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
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Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
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