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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.

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
Left
Returns
Never
Accident
Accidents
Sorry
Brought
Blessed
Return
Camden
Shall
Originally

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Perhaps the efforts of the true poets, founders, religions, literatures, all ages, have been, and ever will be, our time and times to come, essentially the same - to bring people back from their present strayings and sickly abstractions, to the costless, average, divine, original concrete.
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The question, O me! so sad, recurring - What good amid these, O me, O life? That you are here - that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
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Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.
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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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Here is not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations.
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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.
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You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
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I hate commas in the wrong places.
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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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And your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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The sum of all known value and respect, I add up in you, whoever you are.
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To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.
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I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
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A great city is that which has the greatest men and women.
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Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road.
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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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The female that loves unrequited sleeps, And the male that loves unrequited sleeps, The head of the money-maker that plotted all day sleeps, And the enraged and treacherous dispositions, all, all sleep.
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Ah little recks the laborer, How near his work is holding him to God, The loving Laborer through space and time
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All is procession the universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
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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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