I loafe and invite my soul.
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
Whoever you are, motion and reflection are especially for you, The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
All truths wait in all things.
It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.
Why who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know nothing else but miracles, whether they be animals feeding in the fields, Or, birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me, miracles.
O the joy of my spirit - it is uncaged - it darts like lightning!
If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred.
The real war will never get in the books.
Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves, As souls only understand souls.
You have not known what you are - you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life; Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time; What you have done returns already in mockeries; Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return? The mockeries are not you; Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk.
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.
Love, that is day and night - love, that is sun and moon and stars, Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume, no other words but words of love, no other thought but love.
I will sleep no more but arise, You oceans that have been calm within me! how I feel you, fathomless, stirring, preparing unprecedented waves and storms.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you/ That you may be my poem/ I whisper with my lips close to your ear/ I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death.
A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
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.
I tramp a perpetual journey.
The genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges, or churches, or parlors, nor even in its newspapers or inventors, but always most in the common people.
In the confusion we stay with each other, happy to be together, speaking without uttering a single word.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.
A man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity; but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman.
I dance with the dancers.
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