I am an acme of things accomplish’d, and I am an
encloser of things to be.
My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs:
On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches
between the steps,
All below duly travel’d, and still I mount and mount.
Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me:
Afar down I see the huge first Nothing. I know I was
even there,
I waited unseen and always, and slept through the
lethargic mist,
And took my time and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.
Long I was hugg’d close—long and long.
Immense have been the preparations for me,
Faithful and friendly the arms that have help’d me.
Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like
cheerful boatmen;
For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings—
They sent influences to look after what was to hold me.
Before I was born out of my mother generations guided
me,
My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay
it.
For it the nebula cohered to an orb,
The long slow strata piled to rest it on,
Vast vegetables gave it sustenance,
Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and
deposited it with care.
All forces have been steadily employ’d to complete and
delight me,
Now on this spot I stand with my robust soul.
Walt Whitman.