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Walt Whitman

I Sing the Body Electric 1 I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. Was it doubted that those… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

Press close, bare-bosomed Night! Press close, magnetic, nourishing Night! Night of south winds! Night of the large, few stars! Still, nodding Night! Mad, naked, Summer Night! ― Walt Whitman, from “Song of Myself,” Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.  

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Walt Whitman

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,… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

It will illustrate one phase of humanity anyhow; how few of life’s days and hours (and they not by relative value or proportion, but by chance) are ever noted. Probably another point too, how we give long preparations for some object, planning and delving and fashioning, and then, when the actual hour for doing arrives,… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate     into new tongue. — Walt Whitman, from Section 21 of “Song of… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

I Saw in Louisiana A Live-Oak Growing I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing, All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches, Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green, And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself, But I wonder’d how it could… Continue reading Walt Whitman

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Walt Whitman

… re-examine all you have been told […] dismiss whatever insults your own soul… ― Walt Whitman, from the preface of Leaves of Grass. Originally published: July 4, 1855.  

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