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Dismiss whatever insults your soul.

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
Dismiss
Insult
Whatever
Soul
Insults

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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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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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You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here
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Unscrew the locks from the doors ! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs !
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Each of us inevitable Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.
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All truths wait in all things,/They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it
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A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing lacking.
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I announce the great individual, fluid as Nature, chaste, affectionate, compassionate, fully armed I announce a life that shall be copious, vehement, spiritual, bold, And I announce an end that shall lightly and joyfully meet its translation.
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All music is is what awakes from you when you are reminded by the instruments.
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Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
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To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
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THIS dust was once the Man, / Gentle, plain, just and resolute—under whose cautious hand, / Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age, / Was saved the Union of These States.
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And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
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Camden was originally an accident, but I shall never be sorry I was left over in Camden. It has brought me blessed returns.
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Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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Of all mankind the great poet is the equable man. Not in him but off from him things are grotesque or eccentric or fail of their sanity.
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We convince by our presence.
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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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That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.
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We were together. I forget the rest.
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