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Thunder on! Stride on! Democracy. Strike with vengeful stroke!
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
War
Stride
Stroke
Strokes
Thunder
Strike
Strikes
Military
Democracy
Vengeful
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The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.
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Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
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Roaming in thought over the Universe, I saw the little that is Good steadily hastening towards immortality, And the vast all that is called Evil I saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead.
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not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred & fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.
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The process of reading is not a half sleep, but in the highest sense, an exercise, a gymnast's struggle: that the reader is to do something for him or herself, must be on the alert, just construct indeed the poem, argument, history, metaphysical essay--the text furnishing the hints, the clue, the start, the framework.
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You want to know a sure way to lose money? Buy what's popular and don't know what you are investing in.
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I will write the evangel-poem of comrades and of love.
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Whoever you are, motion and reflection are especially for you, The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
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The strongest and sweetest songs yet remain to be sung.
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Nothing endures but personal qualities.
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Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
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Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
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I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
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Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems
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I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.
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The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.
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Now I see the secret of making the best person: it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.
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Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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