| By that long scan of waves, myself call'd back, resumed upon myself,
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| In every crest some undulating light or shade--some retrospect,
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| Joys, travels, studies, silent panoramas--scenes ephemeral,
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| The long past war, the battles, hospital sights, the wounded and the dead,
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| Myself through every by-gone phase--my idle youth--old age at hand,
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| My three-score years of life summ'd up, and more, and past,
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| By any grand ideal tried, intentionless, the whole a nothing,
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| And haply yet some drop within God's scheme's ensemble--some
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| wave, or part of wave,
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| Like one of yours, ye multitudinous ocean.
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| - Walt Whitman
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|
