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

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Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
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I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
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I am the man, I suffered, I was there.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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What a devil art thou, Poverty! How many desires - how many aspirations after goodness and truth - how many noble thoughts, loving wishes toward our fellows, beautiful imaginings thou hast crushed under thy heel, without remorse or pause!
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I see great things in baseball. It's our game - the American game. It will take our people out-of-doors, fill them with oxygen, give them a larger physical stoicism. Tend to relieve us from being a nervous, dyspeptic set. Repair these losses, and be a blessing to us.
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I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear.
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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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Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
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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 lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.
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I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name.
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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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The habit of giving only enhances the desire to give.
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I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
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I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
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I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
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