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Love, that is day and night - love, that is sun and moon and stars, Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, no other words but words of love, no other thought but love.

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
Moon
Stars
Words
Night
Sumptuous
Thought
Crimson
Love
Perfume
Life
Sun
Sick

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O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, / The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won
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I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked.
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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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Peace is always beautiful.
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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 past, the future, majesty, love - if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.
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I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for.
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O captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every wrack The prize we sought is won The port is near, the bells I hear The people all exulting While follow eyes, the steady keel The vessel grim and daring But Heart! Heart! Heart! O the bleeding drops of red Where on the deck my captain lies Fallen cold and dead.
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I give you my hand, I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law Will you give me yourself?
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O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, you express me better than I can express myself.
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I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true country - I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior?
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The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.
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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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Resist much, obey little.
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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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O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish what good amid these, O me, O life?
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Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn, A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.
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I am an acme of things accomplished, and I an encloser of things to be.
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