Quote

O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish what good amid these, O me, O life?

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
Cities
Recurring
Society
Trains
Good
Amid
Life
Foolish
Endless
Train
Questions
Filled
Faithless

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I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
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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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The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.
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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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I swear I will never henceforth have to do with the faith that tells the best! I will have to do only with that faith that leaves the best untold.
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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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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 art of art, the glory of expression, is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity, and the sunlight of letters is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity-nothing can make up for excess, or for the lack of definiteness.
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That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.
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I heard what was said of the universe, heard it and heard it of several thousand years it is middling well as far as it goes - but is that all?
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Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.
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Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
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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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This is the city, and I am one of the citizens/Whatever interests the rest interests me
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I inhale great draught of space...the east and west are mine...and the north and south are mine...I am grandeur than I thought...I did not know i held so much goodness.
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NOT I - NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.
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I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.
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I know I am deathless. No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before. I laugh at what you call dissolution, and I know the amplitude of time.
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I cannot too often repeat that Democracy is a word the real gist of which still sleeps, quite unawakened, notwithstanding the resonance and the many angry tempests out of which its syllables have come, from pen or tongue. It is a great word, whose history, I suppose, remains unwritten because that history has yet to be enacted.
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Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me. The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose. Henceforth, I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune. Henceforth, I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing.
Walt Whitman