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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
Perhaps
Lastingly
Strange
Condense
Blood
Martyrs
War
Assassination
History
Martyr
Even
Nationality
Really
Battles
Battle

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The truest and greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough) can never again, in the English language, be express'd in arbitrary and rhyming metre, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion.
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I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out.
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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.
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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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Where the earth is, we are.
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Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.
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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 swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
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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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All the things of the universe are perfect miracles, each as profound as any.
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O magnet-South! O glistening perfumed South! My South! O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me!
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There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.
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I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.
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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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Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city of this earth ever afterward resumes its liberty.
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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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