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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it.

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
Really
Wait
Life
Forward
Waiting
Death
Shows
Sprout
Ends
Sprouts
Doe
Arrest
Ever
Smallest

More quotes by Walt Whitman

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Comerado, this is no book,Who touches this, touches a man,(Is it night? Are we here alone?)It is I you hold, and who holds you,I spring from the pages into your arms-decease calls me forth.
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There is no place like it, no place with an atom of its glory, pride, and exultancy. It lays its hand upon a man's bowels he grows drunk with ecstasy he grows young and full of glory, he feels that he can never die.
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Without enough wilderness America will change. Democracy, with its myriad personalities and increasing sophistication, must be fibred and vitalized by regular contact with outdoor growths - animals, trees, sun warmth and free skies - or it will dwindle and pale.
Walt Whitman
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O America! Because you build for mankind I build for you.
Walt Whitman
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The beauty of independence, departure, actions that rely on themselves.
Walt Whitman
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Keep your face always toward the sunshine everything could be worse but isn't and so we are justified in being grateful - and shadows everything could be better but isn't and so it is easy to be bitter 'unless you decide to look on the bright side will fall behind you.
Walt Whitman
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I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.
Walt Whitman
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Human bodies are words, myriads of words, (In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-shaped, natural, gay, Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)
Walt Whitman
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Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
Walt Whitman
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Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
Walt Whitman
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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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A Song of the good green grass! A song no more of the city streets A song of farms - a song of the soil of fields. A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk'd maize.
Walt Whitman
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Forsake all inhibitions, Pursue thy dreams.
Walt Whitman
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I exist as I am, that is enough.
Walt Whitman
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I celebrate myself, and sing myself.
Walt Whitman
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And I will show of male and female that either is but the equal of the other.
Walt Whitman
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O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.
Walt Whitman
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I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.
Walt Whitman
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I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell
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Re-examine all that you have been told... dismiss that which insults your soul.
Walt Whitman