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This face is a dog's snout sniffing for garbage, snakes nest in that mouth, I hear the sibilant threat.

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
Garbage
Mouth
Mouths
Threat
Snout
Dog
Sniffing
Hear
Nest
Face
Nests
Faces
Snakes

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Without enough wilderness America will change. Democracy, with its myriad personalities and increasing sophistication, must be fibred and vitalized by regular contact with outdoor growths - animals, trees, sun warmth and free skies - or it will dwindle and pale.
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Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
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Do anything, but let it produce joy.
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Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.
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I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
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NOT I - NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.
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At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd
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After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.
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I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, All all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward and outward and forever outward.
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The most affluent man is he that confronts all the shows he sees by equivalents out of the stronger wealth of himself.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
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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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I have no mockings or arguments I witness and wait.
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I am larger, better than I thought I did not know I held so much goodness.
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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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Will you seek afar off? You surely come back at last, In things best known to you, finding the best, or as good as the best, In folks nearest to you finding the sweetest, strongest, lovingest Happiness, knowledge, not in another place, but this place-not for another hour, but this hour.
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Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.
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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
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Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves, As souls only understand souls.
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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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