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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
Sanity
Solitude
Nature
Give
Giving
Primal
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The whole theory of the universe is directed unerringly to one single individual.
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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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And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero.
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Why are there men and women that while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? Why when they leave me do my pennants of joy sink flat and lank?
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The best writing has no lace on its sleeves.
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Something there is more immortal even than 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 road to wisdom is paved with excess. The mark of a true writer is their ability to mystify the familiar and familiarize the strange.
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I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower.
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From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines.
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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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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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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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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it.
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The Past -- the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf --the sleepers and the shadows! The past! the infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?
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The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.
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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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When I undertake to tell the best, I find I cannot. My tongue is ineffectual on its pivots, My breath will not be obedient to its organs, I become a dumb man.
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