The underground is simmering, simmering, simmering.
Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless
successions of diseas'd corpses,
It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such
leavings from them at last.
-Walt Whitman, "This Compost"