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Out of every fruition of success, no matter what, comes forth something to make a new effort necessary.

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
Matter
Every
Something
Fruition
Make
Forth
Necessary
Effort
Success
Comes

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Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.
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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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We convince by our presence.
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Freedom - to walk free and own no superior.
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Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.
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A man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman.
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I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you, To which I sign my name.
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I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy
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Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves, As souls only understand souls.
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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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Under the specious pretext of effecting 'the happiness of the whole community,' nearly all the wrongs and intrusions of government has been carried through.
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The best writing has no lace on its sleeves.
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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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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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Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I loved so well.
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When I give, I give myself.
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When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd / And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, / I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Walt Whitman
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I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear.
Walt Whitman
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The mother condemned for a witch and burnt with dry wood, and her children gazing on The hounded slave that flags in the race and leans by the fence, blowing and covered with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, The murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.
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I am satisfied ... I see, dance, laugh, sing.
Walt Whitman