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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
Insults
Dismiss
Insult
Whatever
Soul

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I know perfectly well my own egotism.
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But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.
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A perfect writer would make words sing, dance, kiss, do the male and female act, bear children, weep, bleed, rage, stab, steal, fire cannon, steer ships, sack cities, charge with cavalry or infantry, or do anything that man or woman or the natural powers can do.
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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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The past, the future, majesty, love - if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.
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Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
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I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of a man.
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Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking bird's throat, the musical shuttle, . . . . A reminiscence sing.
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I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
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All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.
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Strong and content I travel the open road.
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So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel'd road.
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Re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul and your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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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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Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night! Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars! Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night!
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All truths wait in all things.
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There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.
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