Walt Whitman Quotes - Page 2

What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.

Peace is always beautiful.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

I act as the tongue of you,
... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

this is thy hour o soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
night, sleep, death and the stars.

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road.
Healthy, free, the world before me.
The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose.
Henceforth, I ask not good fortune, I myself am good fortune.
Henceforth, I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

This is the city, and I am one of the citizens/Whatever interests the rest interests me

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love;
But now I think there is no unreturn'd love - the pay is certain, one way or another;
(I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd;
Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend, Pioneers! O pioneers!

Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting, Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them, And yet they expose me more than all my other poems

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

And I or you pocketless of a dime, may purchase the pick of the earth.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,
They scorn the best I can do to relate to them

Songs of myself
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

The dirtiest book of all is the expurgated book.

O the joy of my spirit-it is uncaged-it darts like lightning!
It is not enough to have this globe or a certain time,
I will have thousands of globes and all time.