Walt Whitman Quotes

Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter? If our colors are struck and the fighting done? Now I laugh content for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Song of Myself (Fr. XXXV, l. 912-916). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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Open the envelope quickly, O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd, O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother's soul! All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only, Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, At present low, but will soon be better.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Come Up from the Fields, Father (l. 16-21). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. "Song of Myself," sct. 25, Leaves of Grass (1855).
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Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete, And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Come Up from the Fields, Father (l. 1-2). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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I heard what was said of the universe, Heard it and heard it of several thousand years; It is middling well as far as it goes—but is that all?
Walt Whitman (1819-1882), U.S. poet. "Song of Myself," sct. 41, Leaves of Grass (1855).
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Others will see the islands large and small; Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high. A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide. It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not, I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence, Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Crossing Brooklyn Ferry (l. 16-23). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Song of Myself (Fr. LII, l. 1331-1333). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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What is it then between us? What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not,
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Crossing Brooklyn Ferry (l. 54-56). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Song of Myself, sct. 40, Leaves of Grass (1855).
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What is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face? Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you? We understand men do we not? What I promis'd without mentioning it, have you not accepted? What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish is accomplish'd, is it not?
Walt Whitman (1819-1892), U.S. poet. Crossing Brooklyn Ferry (l. 97-101). . . The Complete Poems [Walt Whitman]. Francis Murphy, ed. (1975; repr. 1986) Penguin Books.
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