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Old age: The estuary that enlarges and spreads itself grandly as it pours into the Great Sea.

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
Pours
Spreads
Aging
Spread
Sea
Age
Estuaries
Great
Grandly
Enlarges

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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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I know I am deathlessÂ…We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
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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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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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Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
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Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but we have it in the bulk of our people.
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Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
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I tramp a perpetual journey.
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I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for.
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For all these new and evolutionary facts, meanings, purposes, new poetic messages, new forms and expressions, are inevitable.
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Many a good man I have seen go under.
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Now I will do nothing but listen to accrue what I hear into this song. To let sounds contribute toward it. I hear the sound I love. The sound of the human voice. I hear all sounds running together.
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How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!
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I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of a man.
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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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Are you the new person drawn toward me?
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O amazement of things-even the least particle!
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What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
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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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