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I am not contain'd between my hat and boots.

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
Contain
Boots
Hats

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Give me such shows - give me the streets of Manhattan!
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When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.
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My words itch at your ears till you understand them
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I meet new Walt Whitmans everyday. There are a dozen of them afloat. I don't know which Walt Whitman I am.
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You must not know too much or be too precise or scientific about birds and trees and flowers and watercraft a certain free-margin , or even vagueness - ignorance, credulity - helps your enjoyment of these things.
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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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To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.
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A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
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I give you my hand, I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law Will you give me yourself?
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I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.
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I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.
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Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
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this is thy hour o soul, thy free flight into the wordless, away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, night, sleep, death and the stars.
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Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all.
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The gift is to the giver, and comes back most to him - it cannot fail
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I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.
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O to be self-balanced for contingencies, to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as the trees and animals do.
Walt Whitman
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The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.
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Dismiss whatever insults your soul.
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Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
Walt Whitman