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I sing the body that is electric! I celebrate the Self yet to be unveiled!

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
Unveiled
Electric
Celebrate
Sing
Body
Self

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Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.
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Where the earth is, we are.
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Lo! body and soul!--this land! Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and The sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships The varied and ample land,--the South And the North in the light--Ohio's shores, and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies, covered with grass and corn.
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He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.
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To the real artist in humanity, what are called bad manners are often the most picturesque and significant of all.
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I say no body of men are fit to make Presidents, judges and generals, unless they themselves supply the best specimens of the same and that supplying one or two such specimens illuminates the whole body for a thousand years.
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Thunder on! Stride on! Democracy. Strike with vengeful stroke!
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I will sleep no more but arise, You oceans that have been calm within me! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.
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The purpose of democracy - supplanting old belief in the necessary absoluteness of establish'd dynastic rulership, temporal, ecclesiastical, and scholastic, as furnishing the only security against chaos, crime, and ignorance - is, through many transmigrations, and amid endless ridicules, arguments, and ostensible failures
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not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred & fifty are dumb yet at Alamo.
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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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Of all mankind the great poet is the equable man. Not in him but off from him things are grotesque or eccentric or fail of their sanity.
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I hate commas in the wrong places.
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The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
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There is no God any more divine than Yourself.
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O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.
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I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.
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I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
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Many a good man I have seen go under.
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Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
Walt Whitman