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. 10