Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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?)

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