Quotes About Soul

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and Increase upon myself, the latter I translate into new tongue.

What ever satisfies the soul is truth.

Remember, fear not, be candid, promulge the body and the soul, Dwell a while and pass on, be copious, temperate, chaste, magnetic, And what you effuse may then return as the seasons return, And may be just as much as the seasons.

All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me, Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.

Was somebody asking to see the soul?

Here are the roughs and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves. Here the performance disdaining the trivial unapproached

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best. Night, sleep, and the stars. ? Walt Whitman, "A Clear Midnight," in the section From Noon to Starry Night in the seventh edition of Leaves of Grass (1881)

If you want to know where your heart is, look to where your mind goes when it wanders.

Omar Khayyam:     I sent my soul through the Invisible,       Some letter of that after-life to spell,     And by-and-by my soul return'd to me,       And answer'd, I myself am Heaven and Hell.

O soul, thou pleasest me—I thee; Sailing these seas, or on the hills, or waking in the night, Thoughts, silent thoughts, of Time, and Space, and Death, like waters flowing...

Re-examine all that you have been told... Dismiss that which insults your soul.

The myth of heaven indicates peace and night. The myth of heaven indicates the soul; The soul is always beautiful . . . it appears more or it appears less . . . it comes or lags behind

And I will not make a poem nor the least part of a poem but has reference to the soul, Because having look'd at the objects of the universe, I find there is no one nor any particle of one but has reference to the soul.

I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease . . . observing a spear of summer grass.

Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof.

Come, said my Soul Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,) That should I after death invisibly return, Or, long, long hence, in other spheres, There to some group of mates the chants resuming, (Tallying Earth's soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,) Ever with pleas'd smiles I may keep on, Ever and ever yet the verses owning — as, first, I here and now, Signing for Soul and Body, set to them my name, WALT WHITMAN

Quédate hoy conmigo, vive conmigo un día y una noche y te mostraré el origen de todos los poemas. Tendrás entonces todo cuanto hay de grande en la Tierra y en el Sol (existen además millones de soles más allá) y nada tomarás ya nunca de segunda ni de tercera mano, ni mirarás más por los ojos de los muertos, ni te nutrirás con el espectro de los libros.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Ó lélek, nagynak tartod azt, ha roppant könyvek értelméig elhatolsz, És gondolattal terhesen drámákba és elméletekbe mélyedsz? De átérezni most felém trillázó boldogságod, kismadárka, Mellyel tele az ?r, elhagyatott szobám s a lassú délelÅ'tt, Ó, lélek, ez nem éppoly nagy dolog?

To know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls. The soul travels, the body does not travel as much as the soul. The body has just a great of work as the soul and parts away at last for the journeys of the soul." If it's happiness we are after it is the pursuit of happiness that matters.

I am the poet of the body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me

AS THE TIME DRAWS NIGH As the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud, A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me. I shall go forth, I shall traverse The States awhile—but I cannot tell whither or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease. O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?… And yet it is enough, O soul! O soul! we have positively appear'd—that is enough.

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.

There is hardly a more admirable impulse in the human soul than patriotism.