Unseen buds, infinite, hidden well
Under the snow and ice, under the darkness, in every square or cubic inch,
Germinal, exquisite, in delicate lace, microscopic, unborn,
Like babes in wombs, latent, folded, compact, sleeping;
Billions of billions, and trillions of trillions of them waiting,
Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless,
And waiting ever more, forever more behind
Walt Whitman
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