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312 , 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?



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?