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In this broad earth of ours, Amid the measureless grossness and the slag, Enclosed and safe within its central heart, Nestles the seed of perfection.

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
Seed
Central
Grossness
Seeds
Measureless
Perfection
Slag
Safe
Enclosed
Within
Amid
Earth
Broads
Heart
Broad

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Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?
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The truest and greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough) can never again, in the English language, be express'd in arbitrary and rhyming metre, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion.
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Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!
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The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
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Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background, the countless minor scenes and interiors of the secession war and it is best they should not. The real war will never get in the books.
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I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
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Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
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I will not descend among professors and capitalists.
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And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.
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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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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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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
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What do you suppose will satisfy the soul, except to walk free and own no superior?
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Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
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To me the sea is a continual miracle The fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships, with men in them, what stranger miracles are there?
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Shut not your doors to me proud libraries.
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The work for giants...to serve well the guns!
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Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
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A writer can do nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.
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I have said that the soul is not more than the body, And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's-self is.
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