Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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IN the new garden, in all the parts,

In cities now, modern, I wander,

Though the second or third result, or still further,
primitive yet,

Days, places, indifferent—though various, the same,

Time, Paradise, the Mannahatta, the prairies, finding
me unchanged,

Death indifferent—Is it that I lived long since?
Was I buried very long ago?

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For all that, I may now be watching you here, this
moment;

For the future, with determined will, I seek—the
woman of the future,

You, born years, centuries after me, I seek.

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