Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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INQUIRING, tireless, seeking that yet unfound,

I, a child, very old, over waves, toward the house of
maternity, the land of migrations, look afar,

Look off the shores of my Western Sea—having
arrived at last where I am—the circle almost
circled;

For coming 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,

Now I face the old home again—looking over to it,
joyous, as after long travel, growth, and sleep;

But where is what I started for, so long ago?

And why is it yet unfound?

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