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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
Presses
Press
Affection
Spring
Hundred
Feet
Affections
Earth
Springs
Foot

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Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death.
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Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I can bear it.
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In all people I see myself - none more, and not one a barleycorn less And the good or bad I say of myself, I say of them.
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If you done it, it ain't bragging.
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Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting, Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them, And yet they expose me more than all my other poems
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Strange, (is it not?) that battles, martyrs, blood, even assassination should so condense - perhaps only really lastingly condense - a Nationality.
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Viewed freely, the English language is the accretion and growth of every dialect, race, and range of time, and is both the free and compacted composition of all.
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God is a mean-spirited, pugnacious bully bent on revenge against His children for failing to live up to his impossible standards.
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I was in the midst of it all - saw war where war is worst - not on the battlefields, no - in the hospitals ... there I mixed with it: and now I say God damn the wars - allw ars: God damn every war: God damn 'em! God damn 'em!
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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.
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Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes.
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Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand.
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Re-examine all that you have been told... dismiss that which insults your soul.
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Peace is always beautiful.
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I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contained, I stand and look at them long and long.
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I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
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The city sleeps and the country sleeps, the living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, the old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife and these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, and such as it is to be of these more or less I am, and of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
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Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
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I dream in my dreams all the dreams of the other dreamers. And I become the other dreamers.
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