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

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A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely. It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.
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Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I can bear it.
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Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
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O America! Because you build for mankind I build for you.
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I meet new Walt Whitmans everyday. There are a dozen of them afloat. I don't know which Walt Whitman I am.
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Nothing endures but personal qualities.
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I dance with the dancers.
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
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I cannot too often repeat that Democracy is a word the real gist of which still sleeps, quite unawakened, notwithstanding the resonance and the many angry tempests out of which its syllables have come, from pen or tongue. It is a great word, whose history, I suppose, remains unwritten because that history has yet to be enacted.
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The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first Be not discouraged - keep on - there are divine things, well envelop'd I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
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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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All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.
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Old age: The estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the Great Sea.
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I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
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The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss... it is inevitable as life.
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I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.
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I and this mystery, here we stand.
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Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road, healthy, free, the world before me.
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