From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
A
glimpse through an
interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around
the
stove late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated
in a
corner,
Of a
youth who loves me and whom I love, silently
approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold
me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of
drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two,
content, happy in being together, speaking
little, perhaps not a word.