I believe in the flesh and the appetites; Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer; This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

— Walt Whitman

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean But I shall be good health to you nonetheless And filter and fiber your blood.

— Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself.

— Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

— Walt Whitman

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runway sun, I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again look for me under your boot soles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you

— Walt Whitman

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

— Walt Whitman

I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.

— Walt Whitman

I do not say these things for a dollar, or to fill up the time while I wait for a boat;

— Walt Whitman

I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth, That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at the end but threadbare crape and tears.

— Walt Whitman

I exist as I am that is enough If no other in the world be aware I sit content And if each and all be aware I sit content.

— Walt Whitman