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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
Death
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Sprout
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Sprouts
Doe
Arrest
Ever
Smallest
Really
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Life
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Waiting
More quotes by Walt Whitman
I inhale great draught of space...the east and west are mine...and the north and south are mine...I am grandeur than I thought...I did not know i held so much goodness.
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Re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul and your very flesh shall be a great poem.
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The truth is simple. If it was complicated, everyone would understand it.
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Man is about the same, in the main, whether with despotism, or whether with freedom.
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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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I think of few heroic actions, which cannot be traced to the artistical impulse. He who does great deeds, does them from his innate sensitiveness to moral beauty.
Walt Whitman
All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch).
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O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!
Walt Whitman
Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy.
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Re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body.
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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
Now, dearest comrade, lift me to your face, We must separate awhileHere! take from my lips this kiss. Whoever you are, I give it especially to you So long!And I hope we shall meet again.
Walt Whitman
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
Walt Whitman
Whoever you are, motion and reflection are especially for you, The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
Walt Whitman
All truths wait in all things.
Walt Whitman
The future is no more uncertain than the present.
Walt Whitman
My call is the call of battle- I nourish active rebellion/ He going with me must go well armed.
Walt Whitman
Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
Walt Whitman
At times it has been doubtful to me if Emerson really knows or feels what Poetry is at its highest, as in the Bible, for instance, or Homer or Shakspeare. I see he covertly or plainly likes best superb verbal polish, or something old or odd
Walt Whitman
Praised be the fathomless universe, for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious.
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