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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
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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
Heroic
Doe
Great
Impulse
Think
Deeds
Thinking
Actions
Beauty
Sensitiveness
Moral
Traced
Action
Innate
Cannot
More quotes by Walt Whitman
I have no mockings or arguments I witness and wait.
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Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul.
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O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done.
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I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware, I sit content, And if each and all be aware, I sit content.
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I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.
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I and this mystery, here we stand.
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All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.
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The Past -- the dark unfathomed retrospect! The teeming gulf --the sleepers and the shadows! The past! the infinite greatness of the past! For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?
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Re-examine all that you have been told... dismiss that which insults your soul.
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I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion's sake.
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The truest and greatest Poetry, (while subtly and necessarily always rhythmic, and distinguishable easily enough) can never again, in the English language, be express'd in arbitrary and rhyming metre, any more than the greatest eloquence, or the truest power and passion.
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What a devil art thou, Poverty! How many desires - how many aspirations after goodness and truth - how many noble thoughts, loving wishes toward our fellows, beautiful imaginings thou hast crushed under thy heel, without remorse or pause!
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My little notebooks were beginnings - they were the ground into which I dropped the seed... I would work in this way when I was out in the crowds, then put the stuff together at home.
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I see Hermes, unsuspected, dying, well-beloved, saying to the people, Do not weep for me, This is not my true country, I have lived banished from my true country - I now go back there, I return to the celestial sphere where every one goes in his turn.
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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I am too not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
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All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain.
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There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
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Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep for the dead I loved so well.
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I meet new Walt Whitmans everyday. There are a dozen of them afloat. I don't know which Walt Whitman I am.
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