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I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!

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
Nothing
Think
Thinking
Swear
Immortality

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All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.
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Freedom - to walk free and own no superior.
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And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.
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Give me the splendid, silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.
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I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
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Agonies are one of my changes of garments.
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Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
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Dismiss whatever insults your soul.
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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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There will soon be no more priests... They may wait awhile, perhaps a generation or two, dropping off by degrees. A superior breed shall take their place. A new order shall arise and they shall be the priests of man, and every man shall be his own priest.
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Over all the sky - the sky! Far, far out of reach, studded with eternal stars.
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Now I see that there is no such thing as love unreturn'd. The pay is certain, one way or another.
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I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
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Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
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I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower.
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And as to me, I know nothing else but miracles
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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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There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he looked upon, that object he became.
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Copulation is no more foul to me than death is.
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