Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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UNSEEN buds, infinite, hidden well,

Under the snow and ice, under the darkness, in every square or
cubic inch,

Germinal, exquisite, in delicate lace, microscopic, unborn,

Like babes in wombs, latent, folded, compact, sleeping;

Billions of billions, and trillions of trillions of them waiting,

(On earth and in the sea—the universe—the stars there in the
heavens,)

Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless,

And waiting ever more, forever more behind.

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