Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.
Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.
Happiness, not in another place but this place...not for another hour, but this hour.
I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman, Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me, or any one else.