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Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
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
Give
Giving
Autumnal
Juicy
Orchard
Ripe
Autumn
Red
Fruit
More quotes by Walt Whitman
Ah little recks the laborer, How near his work is holding him to God, The loving Laborer through space and time
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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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O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.
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The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him - it cannot fail
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You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here
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Most works are most beautiful without ornament.
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Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are, Buds to be unfolded on the old terms If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color, perfume, to you If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall blanches and trees.
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O joy of suffering! To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted! To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand! To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! To be indeed a God!
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O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
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By writing at the instant, the very heartbeat of life is caught.
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The city sleeps and the country sleeps, the living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, the old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife and these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, and such as it is to be of these more or less I am, and of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
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A perfect writer would make words sing, dance, kiss, do the male and female act, bear children, weep, bleed, rage, stab, steal, fire cannon, steer ships, sack cities, charge with cavalry or infantry, or do anything that man or woman or the natural powers can do.
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It is only the novice in political economy who thinks it is the duty of government to make its citizens happy - government has no such office.
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Viewed freely, the English language is the accretion and growth of every dialect, race, and range of time, and is both the free and compacted composition of all.
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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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Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her shall I follow.
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The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.
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That's beautiful: the hurrah game! well — it's our game: that's the chief fact in connection with it: America's game: has the snap, go fling, of the American atmosphere — belongs as much to our institutions, fits into them as significantly, as our constitutions, laws: is just as important in the sum total of our historic life.
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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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Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
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