Inquiring, tireless, seeking that yet unfound,
I, a child, very old, over waves, toward the house of
maternity, the land of migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western Sea — having
arrived at last where I am — the circle almost
circled;
For coming 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,
Now I face the old home again — looking over to it,
joyous, as after long travel, growth, and sleep;
But where is what I started for, so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?

In the new garden, in all the parts,
In cities now, modern, I wander,
Though the second or third result, or still further,
primitive yet,
Days, places, indifferent — though various, the same,
Time, Paradise, the Mannahatta, the prairies, finding
me unchanged,
Death indifferent — Is it that I lived long since?
Was I buried very long ago?