Walt Whitman Quotes About Summer

Quotes about: Summer

• As for me, I know nothing else but miracles,
  Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
  Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
  Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
  Or stand under the trees in the woods,
  Or talk by day with any one I love,
  Or sleep in bed at night with any one I love,
  Or watch honey bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon...
  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...
  What stranger miracles are there?

  Walt Whitman

  Summer, Beach, Stars

  Walt Whitman, “Miracles”

• I lean and loaf at my ease... observing a spear of summer grass.

  Walt Whitman

  Summer, Ease, Grass

  Walt Whitman, Clarence Merton Babcock (1969). “Leaves of grass: selected poetry and prose”

• O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!
  O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!
  O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!
  A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.

  Walt Whitman

  Summer, Land, Voice

  Walt Whitman (1871). “Leaves of Grass: Passage to India”, p.87

• I know I am deathless…We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.

  Walt Whitman

  Summer, Winter, Leaves Of Grass

• 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

  Summer, Stars, Night

  Walt Whitman, Sculley Bradley, Harold W. Blodgett (2008). “Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1855-1856”, p.27, NYU Press

• I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.

  Walt Whitman

  Summer, Morning, Heart

  Walt Whitman, Sculley Bradley, Harold W. Blodgett (2008). “Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1855-1856”, p.6, NYU Press

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