The question, O me! so sad, recurring - What good amid these, O me, O life? That you are here - that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
I refuse putting from me the best that I am.
The proof of a poet is that his country absorbs him as affectionately as he has absorbed it.
Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
The dirtiest book of all is the expurgated book.
The female that loves unrequited sleeps, And the male that loves unrequited sleeps, The head of the money-maker that plotted all day sleeps, And the enraged and treacherous dispositions, all, all sleep.
Freedom - to walk free and own no superior.
Note, to-day, an instructive, curious spectacle and conflict. Science, (twin, in its fields, of Democracy in its)—Science, testing absolutely all thoughts, all works, has already burst well upon the world—a sun, mounting, most illuminating, most glorious—surely never again to set. But against it, deeply entrench'd, holding possession, yet remains, (not only through the churches and schools, but by imaginative literature, and unregenerate poetry,) the fossil theology of the mythic-materialistic, superstitious, untaught and credulous, fable-loving, primitive ages of humanity.
I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
I see great things in baseball. It's our game - the American game.
Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.
The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.
I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out.
My call is the call of battle- I nourish active rebellion;/ He going with me must go well armed.
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
I am large, I contain multitudes
Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.
My rule has been, so far as I could have any rule (I could have no cast-iron rule) - my rule has been, to write what I have to say the best way I can - then lay it aside - taking it up again after some time and reading it afresh - the mind new to it. If there's no jar in the new reading, well and good - that's sufficient for me.
Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimpeachable of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art.
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