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Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, blood, even assassination should so condense - perhaps only really lastingly condense - a Nationality.
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
Battle
Perhaps
Lastingly
Strange
Condense
Blood
Martyrs
War
Assassination
History
Martyr
Even
Nationality
Really
Battles
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I sing the body that is electric! I celebrate the Self yet to be unveiled!
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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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Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.
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O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done.
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In nothing is there more evolution than the American mind.
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Re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body.
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The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.
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Camerado! This is no book who touches this touches a man.
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I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
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What a devil art thou, Poverty! How many desires - how many aspirations after goodness and truth - how many noble thoughts, loving wishes toward our fellows, beautiful imaginings thou hast crushed under thy heel, without remorse or pause!
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I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
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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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And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
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I will not descend among professors and capitalists.
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Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love.
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I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.
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The Americans, like the English, probably make love worse than any other race.
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Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
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I think of few heroic actions, which cannot be traced to the artistical impulse. He who does great deeds, does them from his innate sensitiveness to moral beauty.
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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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