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Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities!

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
Primal
Sanity
Solitude
Nature
Give
Giving

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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least.
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O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.
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After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.
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These are the days that must happen to you.
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Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life
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How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!
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There's a man in the world who is never turned down, whatever he chances to stray he gets the glad hand in the populous town, or out where the farmers makes hay he's greeted with pleasure on deserts of sand, and deep in the aisles of the woods wherever he goes there's a welcoming hand-he's the man who delivers the goods.
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I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
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Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
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This hour I tell things in confidence/ I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
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All the past we leave behind We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world, Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O Pioneers!
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I cannot be awake for nothing looks to me as it did before, Or else I am awake for the first time, and all before has been a mean sleep.
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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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The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
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I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuffed with the stuff that is course, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine.
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