Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 35. Good-Bye My Fancy. 30. Unseen Buds

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,
(On earth and in the sea—the universe—the stars there in the
      heavens,)
Urging slowly, surely forward, forming endless,
And waiting ever more, forever more behind.