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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
English
Worse
Americans
Probably
Race
Make
Love
Like
Insulting
More quotes by Walt Whitman
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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Thunder on! Stride on! Democracy. Strike with vengeful stroke!
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What stays with you latest and deepest? of curious panics, of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains?
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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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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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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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Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
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Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
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The whole purpose of the universe is unerringly aimed at one thing - you.
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O joy of suffering! To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted! To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand! To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face! To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! To be indeed a God!
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There is no week nor day nor hour when tyranny may not enter upon this country, if the people lose their roughness and spirit of defiance.
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Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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The eager and often inconsiderate appeals of reformers and revolutionists are indispensable to counterbalance the inertia and fossilism marking so large a part of human institutions.
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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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My ties and ballasts leave me - I travel - I sail - My elbows rest in the sea-gaps. I skirt the sierras. My palms cover continents - I am afoot with my vision.
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I accept reality and dare not question it.
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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.
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The Past -- the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf --the sleepers and the shadows! The past! the infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?
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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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