Walt Whitman (1819-1892) closes his Song of Myself (1881) as follows . . .
I bequeath myself
to the dirt
to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again
look for me under your bootsoles.
You will hardly know
who I am
or what I mean,
But I shall be
good health to you
nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first
keep encouraged,
Missing me one place
search another,
I stop some where
waiting for you.
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