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All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain.
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
Blood
Brain
Beauty
Comes
Beautiful
More quotes by Walt Whitman
I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
Walt Whitman
And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
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I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.
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Liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs.
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Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking bird's throat, the musical shuttle, . . . . A reminiscence sing.
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Out of every fruition of success, no matter what, comes forth something to make a new effort necessary.
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The soul is always beautiful, it appears more or it appears less, it comes or it lags behind, It comes from its embowered garden and looks pleasantly on itself and encloses the world.
Walt Whitman
Be curious, not judgmental.
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But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?
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O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
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Give me such shows - give me the streets of Manhattan!
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All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch).
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Re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul and your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
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In nothing is there more evolution than the American mind.
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I will not descend among professors and capitalists.
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To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
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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 morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
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We were together. I forget the rest.
Walt Whitman