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When one reaches out to help another he touches the face of God.

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
Reaches
Teacher
Face
Help
Faces
Helping
Another
Touches

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I Think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost . The body sluggish, aged, cold, the ember left from earlier fires shall duly flame again.
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I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
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The most affluent man is he that confronts all the shows he sees by equivalents out of the stronger wealth of himself.
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O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!
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I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least.
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From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines. Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute. Listening to others, and considering well what they say. Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating. Gently but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.
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...of two simple men I saw today on the pier in the midst of the crowd, parting the parting of dear friends, the one to remain hung on the other's neck and passionately kissed him. While the one to depart tightly pressed the one to remain in his arms.
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And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.
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I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true country - I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn.
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My words itch at your ears till you understand them
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Long and long has the grass been growing, Long and long has the rain been falling, Long has the globe been rolling round.
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I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd by God's name.
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In the faces of men and women, I see God.
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TO the States or any one of them, or any city of the States, Resist much, obey little, Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved, Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth, ever after-ward resumes its liberty.
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All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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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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Now I will do nothing but listen to accrue what I hear into this song. To let sounds contribute toward it. I hear the sound I love. The sound of the human voice. I hear all sounds running together.
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