The impalpable sustenance¹ of me from all things at all hours

    of the day，

    The simple， compact， well-join'd scheme， myself disinte-grated，

    every one disintegrated² yet part of the scheme，

    The similitudes of the past and those of the future，

    The glories strung like beads³ on my smallest sights and

    hearings， on the walk in the street and the passage over

    the river，

    The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away，

    The others that are to follow me， the ties between me and them，

    The certainty of others， the life， love， sight， hearing of others.

    Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore

    to shore，

    Others will watch the run of the flood-tide，

    Others will see the shipping⁴ of Manhattan north and west，

    and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east，

    Others will see the islands large and small；

    Fifty years hence， others will see them as they cross， the sun

    half an hour high，

    A hundred years hence， or ever so many hundred years hence，

    others will see them，

    Will enjoy the sunset， the pouring-in of the flood-tide， the

    falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.