Walt Whitman Quotes

The young are beautiful — but the old are more beautiful than the young.

... What living and buried speech is vibrating here... what howls restrained by decorum...

I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, In the day among crowds of people sometimes they came upon me, In my walks home late at night or as I lay in my bed they came upon me.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you, None has understood you, but I understand you, None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself, None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you, None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you, I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?
I also say it is good to fall,
Battles are lost in the same spirit
In which they are won

We seem afraid of the natural forces. John Burroughs puts it well, says, if the American is only dry, he is not content to take a drink of pure cold water, but must put sugar into it, or a flavor. To me, these things — the things of which these are the type — are the prominent dangers in the future of our America. The exhilaration of such freedom — the going and coming — the being master of yourself and of the road! No one who is not a walker can begin to know it! Oh! the long, long walks, way into the nights! — in the after hours — sometimes lasting till two or three in the morning! The air, the stars, the moon, the water — what a fullness of inspiration they imparted! — what exhilaration! And there were the detours, too — wanderings off into the country out of the beaten path: I remember one place in Maryland in particular to which we would go. How splendid, above all, was the moon — the full moon, the half moon: and then the wonder, the delight, of the silences.

All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.

Of all races and eras these States with veins full of poetical stuff most need poets,

The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the
marrow in the bones,
The exquisite realization of health;
O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only,
but of the soul,
O I say now these are the soul!

he can make every word he speaks draw blood,

CENTURIES HENCE. Full of life now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realising my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your loving
comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. Be not too certain but I am now with you.

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.

Like a stone dropped into a pond, an article of that sort may spread out its concentric circles of consequences.

A great poem is for ages and ages in common and for all degrees and complexions and all departments and sects and for a woman as much as a man and a man as much as a woman. A great poem is no finish to a man or woman but rather a beginning. Has any one fancied he could sit at last under some due authority and rest satisfied with explanations and realize and be content and full? To no such terminus does the greatest poet bring . . . he brings neither cessation or sheltered fatness and ease. The touch of him tells in action. Whom he takes he takes with firm sure grasp into live regions previously unattained thenceforward is no rest . . . they see the space and ineffable sheen that turn the old spots and lights into dead vacuums. The companion of him beholds the birth and progress of stars and learns one of the meanings. Now there shall be a man cohered out of tumult and chaos . . . the elder encourages the younger and shows him how . . . they two shall launch off fearlessly together till the new world fits an orbit for itself and looks unabashed on the lesser orbits of the stars and sweeps through the ceaseless rings and shall never be quiet again.

I am he who walks the States with a barb'd tongue, questioning every
one I meet,
Who are you that wanted only to be told what you knew before?
Who are you that wanted only a book to join you in your nonsense?