From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
Recorders ages hence,
Come, I will take you down underneath this
impassive exterior,
I will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the
tenderest
lover,
The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his friend his lover
was fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless
ocean of love within him, and freely pour'd it forth,
Who often walk'd
lonesome walks thinking of his dear
friends, his lovers,
Who
pensive away from one he lov'd often lay sleepless and
dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick
dread lest the one he lov'd
might secretly be
indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away through fields, in woods,
on hills, he and another wandering
hand in hand, they
twain apart from other men,
Who oft as he saunter'd the streets curv'd with his arm the
shoulder of his friend, while the
arm of his friend rested
upon him also.