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O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.

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
Seek
Verse
Summer
Lands
Infinite
Boundless
Narrate
Womb
Growths
Growth
Verses
Confide
Land
Harvest
Teeming
Voice
Brown
Lavish
Earth
Thee
Hast

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Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?
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So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
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Now, dearest comrade, lift me to your face, We must separate awhileHere! take from my lips this kiss. Whoever you are, I give it especially to you So long!And I hope we shall meet again.
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Whoever is not in his coffin and the dark grave, let him know he has enough.
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We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves.
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For we cannot tarry here, We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger, We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!
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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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All music is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments. It is not the violins and the cornets-it is not the oboe nor the beating drums, nor the score of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza-nor that of the women's chorus it is nearer and farther than they.
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Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
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The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them
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There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.
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Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love.
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Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
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We convince by our presence.
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There's no doubt that I've deserved my enemies, but I don't think I've deserved my friends.
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There can be no theory of any account unless it corroborate with the theory of the earth.
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Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
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