by Walt Whitman
I doubt it not; then more, immeasurably more,
In each old song bequeathed, in every noble page or text,
(Different, something unreck’d before, some unsuspected author,)
In every object—mountain, tree, and star—in every birth and life,
As part of each, finality of each, meaning, behind the ostent,
The mystic cipher waits infolded.