Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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FULL of life now, compact, visible,

I, forty years old the eighty-third year of the States,

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

To you yet unborn these, seeking you.

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 comrade;

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

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