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Quotes about Walt Whitman

Federico Garcia Lorca

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

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Rave On, John Donne

Rave on john donne, rave on thy holy fool
Down through the weeks of ages
In the moss borne dark dank pools
Rave on, down through the industrial revolution
Empiricism, atomic and nuclear age
Rave on down through time and space down through the corridors
Rave on words on printed page
Rave on, you left us infinity
And well pressed pages torn to fade
Drive on with wild abandon
Uptempo, frenzied heels
Rave on, walt whitman, nose down in wet grass
Rave on fill the senses
On natures bright green shady path
Rave on omar khayyam, rave on kahlil gibran
Oh, what sweet wine we drinketh
The celebration will be held
We will partake the wine and break the holy bread
Rave on let a man come out of ireland
Rave on on mr. yeats,

[...] Read more

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Song Of The Open Road

(walt whitman, 1852)
Allons! the road is before us
It is safe, I have tried it
My own feet have tried it well
Be not detained
Let the paper remain on the desk unwritten
And the book on the shelf unopened
Let the tools remain in the workshop
Let the money remain unearned
Let the school stand
Mind not the cry of the teacher
Let the preacher preach in his pulpit
Let the lawyer plead in his court
And let the judge expound the law...
...let them!
Comerado! I give you my hand
I give you my love more precious than money
I give you myself before preaching and law
Will you give me yourself?
Will you come travel with me?

[...] Read more

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G.K. Chesterton

Variations of an Air

Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul was he
He called for his pipe
and he called for his bowl
and he called for his fiddlers three

after Lord Tennyson

Cole, that unwearied prince of Colchester,
Growing more gay with age and with long days
Deeper in laughter and desire of life
As that Virginian climber on our walls
Flames scarlet with the fading of the year;
Called for his wassail and that other weed
Virginian also, from the western woods
Where English Raleigh checked the boast of Spain,
And lighting joy with joy, and piling up
Pleasure as crown for pleasure, bade me bring
Those three, the minstrels whose emblazoned coats

[...] Read more

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I have never read a line of Walt Whitman.

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I always knew in my heart Walt Whitman's mind to be more like my own than any other man's living. As he is a very great scoundrel this is not a pleasant confession.

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Anna Quindlen

There is little premium in poetry in a world that thinks of Pound and Whitman as a weight and a sampler, not an Ezra, a Walt, a thing of beauty, a joy forever.

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Walt Whitman, he who laid end to end words never seen in each other's company before outside of a dictionary.

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A Cloudy Imagination

The lingering cumulus clouds
imperceptibly changed their shapes
while I sat below discerning
these metamorphosed spectacles.
My imagination went wild
as they drifted across the sky.
It seemingly was like my mind
was orchestrating their transmuting.
I glanced at one that took the shape
of the poet Walt Whitman's head;
another like Sylvia Plath;
and yet another looked like Poe.
I glanced back at the Whitman cloud
but it changed into Erato.
I took my pad from my pocket
and began to write this poem.

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To Walt Whitman In America

Send but a song oversea for us,
Heart of their hearts who are free,
Heart of their singer, to be for us
More than our singing can be;
Ours, in the tempest at error,
With no light but the twilight of terror;
Send us a song oversea!

Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses,
And blown as a tree through and through
With the winds of the keen mountain-passes,
And tender as sun-smitten dew;
Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes
The wastes of your limitless lakes,
Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue.

O strong-winged soul with prophetic
Lips hot with the bloodheats of song,
With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunders in throng,

[...] Read more

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