Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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¹ FULL of life, sweet-blooded, compact, visible,

I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States,

To one a century hence, or any number of centuries
hence,

To you, yet unborn, these, seeking you.

² When you read these, I, that was visible, am become
invisible;

Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems,
seeking me,

Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with
you, and become your lover;

Be it as if I were with you. Be not too certain but I
am now with you.

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