From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
Facing
west from
California's shores,
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
I, a
child, very old, over waves, towards the house of
maternity, the land of
migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;
For starting westward from
Hindustan, from the vales of
Kashmere,
From
Asia, from the north, from the God, the
sage, and the hero,
From the south, from the flowery
peninsulas and the
spice islands,
Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,
Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,
(But where is what I started for so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)