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The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections.

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
Feet
Affections
Earth
Springs
Foot
Presses
Press
Affection
Spring
Hundred

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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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Have you not learned the most in your life from those with whom you disagreed - those who saw it differently from you?
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I loafe and invite my soul.
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Either define the moment or the moment will define you.
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Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.
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Praised be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious.
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More and more too, the old name absorbs into me. Mannahatta, 'the place encircled by many swift tides and sparkling waters.' How fit a name for America's great democratic island city! The word itself, how beautiful! how aboriginal! how it seems to rise with tall spires, glistening in sunshine, with such New World atmosphere, vista and action!
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Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
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The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, He turns his quid of tobacco, while his eyes blur with the manuscript.
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Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)
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I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower.
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I have no mockings or arguments I witness and wait.
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The dirtiest book of all is the expurgated book.
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When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.
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Be not ashamed women, ... You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.
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Wisdom is not finally tested by the schools, Wisdom cannot be pass'd from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.
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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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