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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.

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
Bits
Untranslatable
Tamed

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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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I know perfectly well my own egotism.
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I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
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When I give, I give myself.
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What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior?
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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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Each of us inevitable Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.
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The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
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O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!
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From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines.
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This hour I tell things in confidence/ I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
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The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
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To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimpeachable of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art.
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The earth does not argue, Is not pathetic, has no arrangements, Does not scream, haste, persuade, threaten, promise, Makes no discriminations, has no conceivable failures, Closes nothing, refuses nothing, shuts none out.
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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me. The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose. Henceforth, I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune. Henceforth, I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing.
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Silence? What can New York-noisy, roaring, rumbling, tumbling, bustling, story, turbulent New York-have to do with silence? Amid the universal clatter, the incessant din of business, the all swallowing vortex of the great money whirlpool-who has any, even distant, idea of the profound repose......of silence?
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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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And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
Walt Whitman
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Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I loved so well.
Walt Whitman