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

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And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and can be none in the future, And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turned to beautiful results.
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I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
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There was a child went forth everyday, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day... or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
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And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
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You want to know a sure way to lose money? Buy what's popular and don't know what you are investing in.
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Thought Of equality- as if it harm'd me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself- as if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same.
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The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual.
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If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.
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Man is about the same, in the main, whether with despotism, or whether with freedom.
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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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Joy, shipmate, joy! (Pleased to my soul at death I cry), Our life is closed, our life begins, The long, long anchorage we leave, The ship is clear at last, she leaps! She swiftly courses from the shore, Joy, shipmate, joy!
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My call is the call of battle- I nourish active rebellion/ He going with me must go well armed.
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Unscrew the locks from the doors ! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs !
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Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background, the countless minor scenes and interiors of the secession war and it is best they should not. The real war will never get in the books.
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The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.
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The best writing has no lace on its sleeves.
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Forsake all inhibitions, Pursue thy dreams.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
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Human bodies are words, myriads of words, (In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-shaped, natural, gay, Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)
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