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Facing west, from California’s shores,
  Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
  I, a child, very old, over waves, towards the house of maternity, the
        land of migrations, look afar,
  Look off the shores of my Western Sea—the circle almost circled;
  For, starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
  From Asia—from the north—from the God, the sage, and the hero,
  From the south—from the flowery peninsulas, and the spice islands;
  Long having wander’d since—round the earth having wander’d,
  Now I face home again—very pleas’d and joyous;
  (But where is what I started for, so long ago?
  And why is it yet unfound?)
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