Leaves of Grass (1860)

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YOU bards of ages hence! when you refer to me, mind
not so much my poems,

Nor speak of me that I prophesied of The States, and
led them the way of their glories;

But 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 measure-
less ocean of love within him—and freely poured
it forth,

Who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his
dear friends, his lovers,

Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleep-
less and dissatisfied at night,

Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one
he loved 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 sauntered the streets, curved with his
arm the shoulder of his friend—while the arm of
his friend rested upon him also.

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