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Walt Whitman - Recorders Ages Hence
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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.
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