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Walt Whitman Quotes - Page 7

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.

Walt Whitman, Sculley Bradley, Harold W. Blodgett, Arthur Golden, William White (2008). “Leaves of Grass: Vol. I-III: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1855-1856”, p.643, NYU Press

I love doctors and hate their medicine.

Walt Whitman, Walter Magnes Teller, Horace Traubel (1973). “Walt Whitman's Camden conversations”

A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing lacking.

Walt Whitman (2003). “The Portable Walt Whitman”, p.151, Penguin

I loafe and invite my soul.

Walt Whitman, Ezra Greenspan (2005). “Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself": A Sourcebook and Critical Edition”, p.129, Psychology Press

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles.

Walt Whitman, Sculley Bradley, Harold W. Blodgett (2008). “Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1855-1856”, p.83, NYU Press

There is no God any more divine than Yourself.

Walt Whitman “Annotated LEAVES OF GRASS with English Grammar Exercises: by Walt Whitman (Author), Robert Powell (Editor)”, Powell Publications, LLC

Something there is more immortal even than the stars.

Walt Whitman (1870). “Passage to India”, p.84, Haskell House Pub Limited

Day by day and night by night we were together - all else has long been forgotten by me.

Walt Whitman, Robert Hass (2010). “Song of Myself, and Other Poems”, p.229, Counterpoint Press

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?

Walt Whitman (2013). “Delphi Complete Works of Walt Whitman (Illustrated)”, p.243, Delphi Classics

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.

Walt Whitman, Sculley Bradley, Harold W. Blodgett (2008). “Leaves of Grass: A Textual Variorum of the Printed Poems, 1855-1856”, p.161, NYU Press

And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

Walt Whitman (2013). “Leaves of Grass”, p.8, Simon and Schuster