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These are the days that must happen to you.
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
Days
Happen
Happens
Must
Life
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Me imperturbe, standing at ease in nature.
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Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
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I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.
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Camerado! This is no book who touches this touches a man.
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More and more too, the old name absorbs into me. Mannahatta, 'the place encircled by many swift tides and sparkling waters.' How fit a name for America's great democratic island city! The word itself, how beautiful! how aboriginal! how it seems to rise with tall spires, glistening in sunshine, with such New World atmosphere, vista and action!
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From this hour, freedom! Going where I like, my own master.
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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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I do not doubt but the majest and beauty of the world are latent in any iota of the world I do not doubt there is far more in trivialities, insects, vulgar persons, slaves, dwarfs, weeds, rejected refuse than I have supposed.
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The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual.
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Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
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A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.
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I cannot be awake for nothing looks to me as it did before, Or else I am awake for the first time, and all before has been a mean sleep.
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A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing lacking.
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Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy.
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O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.
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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
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The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world.
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And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
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I tramp a perpetual journey.
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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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