Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

American poet
31 May 1819 — 26 March 1892

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Walt Whitman's books


I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don`t believe I deserved my friends.

Happiness, knowledge, not in another place but this place, not for another hour but this hour.

To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it,
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it,
To look up or down no road but it stretches and waits for you,
To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls.

Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself,
(I am large - I contain multitudes.)

All faults may be forgiven of him who has perfect candor.

To have great poets there must be great audiences too.


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