Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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To THE garden, the world, anew ascending,

Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,

The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,

Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber;

The revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, having
brought me again,

Amorous, mature—all beautiful to me—all wondrous;

My limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through
them, for reasons, most wondrous;

Existing, I peer and penetrate still,

Content with the present—content with the past,

By my side, or back of me, Eve following,

Or in front, and I following her just the same.

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