Walt Whitman, the American poet, essayist, journalist, and mystic, wrote the following:

Only in the perfect uncontamination and solitariness of individuality may the spirituality of religion positively come forth at all. Only here, and on such terms, the meditation, the devout ecstasy, the soaring flight. Only here, communion with the mysteries, the eternal problems, whence, whither? Alone, and identity, and the mood—and the soul emerges, and all statements, churches, sermons, melt away like vapors. Alone, and silent thought and awe, and aspiration—and then the interior consciousness, like a hitherto unseen inscription, in magic ink, beams out its wonderous lines to the sense. Bibles may convey, and priests expound, but it is exclusively for the noiseless operation of one’s isolated Self, to enter the pure ether of veneration, reach the divine levels, and commune with the unutterable.
(Walt Whitman, The Complete Writings of Walt Whitman: The complete prose works, G. P. Putnam’s sons: 1902, 105-106.)

It’s almost as if Walt Whitman was with Joseph Smith Jr. at Liberty Jail.