Born on this day in West Hills, New York, Walt Whitman (1819–1892) wrote with passionate, unrhymed lines that celebrated love, friendship, and the divine rhythm of life. His poetry was a hymn to freedom — to walk unbound, self-knowing, and alive to the universe.

“For every atom belongs to me as good as belongs to you,” he wrote, celebrating our shared divinity. Carrying a small notebook, he roamed the streets of America, sketching the pulse of its people and spirit.

The first edition of Leaves of Grass (1855) began with the word “I” and ended with “you,” framing his belief in connection — a living bridge between self and humanity.

Critics dismissed him as “uncouth,” yet his unshakable faith endured. Fired for “immoral passages,” he continued to write, trusting that time would recognize his greatness.

Through all criticism, Whitman never stopped singing the song of the self, an anthem for every soul brave enough to live freely.

“I tramp a perpetual journey,” he declared. “I and this mystery, here we stand.”