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I know I am deathless…We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

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
Winter
Thus
Winters
Summer
Trillions
Summers
Deathless
Reincarnation
Exhausted
Ahead

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I am satisfied ... I see, dance, laugh, sing.
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Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.
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Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.
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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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I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.
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I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
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God is a mean-spirited, pugnacious bully bent on revenge against His children for failing to live up to his impossible standards.
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We convince by our presence.
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The best writing has no lace on its sleeves.
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He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.
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I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight orgies of young men, I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers.
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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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Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
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I sing the body electric.
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My rule has been, so far as I could have any rule (I could have no cast-iron rule) - my rule has been, to write what I have to say the best way I can - then lay it aside - taking it up again after some time and reading it afresh - the mind new to it. If there's no jar in the new reading, well and good - that's sufficient for me.
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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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Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night! Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars! Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night!
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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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And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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People who serve you without love get even behind your back.
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