Quote

The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them

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
Orchestra
Possess
Uranus
Whirls
Wrenches
Ardor
Wider
Flies

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Each of us inevitable Each of us limitless-each of us with his or her right upon the earth.
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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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Peace is always beautiful.
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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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I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least.
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O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, / The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won
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My words itch at your ears till you understand them
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The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves.
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Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.
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I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
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Thunder on! Stride on! Democracy. Strike with vengeful stroke!
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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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Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are, Buds to be unfolded on the old terms If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color, perfume, to you If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall blanches and trees.
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Liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs.
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An electric chain seems to vibrate, as it were, between our brain and him or her preserved there [in a Daguerreotype] so well by the limner's cunning. Time, space, both are annihilated, and we identify the semblance with the reality.
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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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Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me. The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose. Henceforth, I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune. Henceforth, I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing.
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Every hour of every day is an unspeakably perfect miracle.
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Do anything, but let it produce joy.
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