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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

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
Hardly
Mean

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I was in the midst of it all - saw war where war is worst - not on the battlefields, no - in the hospitals ... there I mixed with it: and now I say God damn the wars - allw ars: God damn every war: God damn 'em! God damn 'em!
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When I give, I give myself.
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I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least.
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What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
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I and this mystery, here we stand.
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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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O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South! My South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me!
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Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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I do not seek good fortune - I am good fortune!
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O to be self-balanced for contingencies, to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as the trees and animals do.
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To the real artist in humanity, what are called bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all.
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I say that democracy can never prove itself beyond cavil, until it founds and luxuriantly grows its own forms of art, poems, schools, theology, displacing all that exists, or that has been produced anywhere in the past, under opposite influences.
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For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!
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not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred & fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.
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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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All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain.
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Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it by yourself. It is not far. It is within reach. Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. Perhaps it is everywhere - on water and land.
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All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.
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I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.
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I loafe and invite my soul.
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