 | Leaves of grass. (1861-1861) |  |
164.
Do you not know how the buds beneath are folded?Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes, to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts—it keeping tally with the meaning of things,
Happiness—which, whoever hears me, let him or her set out in search of this day.
| Leaves of grass. (1861-1861) | |