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Walt Whitman - Hours Continuing Long
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HOURS continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted,
Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome and unfrequented
         spot, seating myself, leaning my face in my hands;
Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth, speeding swiftly
         the country roads, or through the city streets, or pacing miles
         and miles, stifling plaintive cries;
Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot content myself
         without, soon I saw him content himself without me;
Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are passing, but I
         believe I am never to forget!)
Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it is useless—I am
         what I am 
Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever have the like, out of
         the like feelings?
Is there even one other like me—distracted—his friend, his lover,
         lost to him?
Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning, dejected,
         thinking who is lost to him? and at night, awaking, think who
         is lost?
Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless? harbor his
         anguish and passion?                                         


Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a name, bring the
         fit back upon him, taciturn and deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours, does he see the
         face of his hours reflected?
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