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The Americans, like the English, probably make love worse than any other race.

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
Probably
Race
Make
Love
Like
Insulting
English
Worse
Americans

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Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
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But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.
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And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
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The art of art... is simplicity.
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Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are, Buds to be unfolded on the old terms If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color, perfume, to you If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall blanches and trees.
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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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I know perfectly well my own egotism.
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O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done.
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Shut not your doors to me proud libraries.
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O captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every wrack The prize we sought is won The port is near, the bells I hear The people all exulting While follow eyes, the steady keel The vessel grim and daring But Heart! Heart! Heart! O the bleeding drops of red Where on the deck my captain lies Fallen cold and dead.
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Unscrew the locks from the doors ! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs !
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I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear.
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A man can be a hero in any profession
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O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, you express me better than I can express myself.
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Simplicity is the glory of expression.
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A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.
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Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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The truth is simple. If it was complicated, everyone would understand it.
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