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Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her that it is just as lucky to die, and I know 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
Inform
Supposed
Lucky
Anyone
Dies
Born
Hasten
More quotes by Walt Whitman
The shallow, as intimated, consider liberty a release from all law, from every constraint. The wise see in it, on the contrary, the potent Law of Laws.
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We were together. I forget the rest.
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Nothing can happen more beautiful than death.
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And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.
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The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.
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The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything.
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Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.
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The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss... it is inevitable as life.
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
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A perfect writer would make words sing, dance, kiss, do the male and female act, bear children, weep, bleed, rage, stab, steal, fire cannon, steer ships, sack cities, charge with cavalry or infantry, or do anything that man or woman or the natural powers can do.
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The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.
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Re-examine all that you have been told... dismiss that which insults your soul.
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I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
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I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.
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I Think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost . The body sluggish, aged, cold, the ember left from earlier fires shall duly flame again.
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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.
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I accept reality and dare not question it.
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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
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Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
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The strongest and sweetest songs yet remain to be sung.
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