VII

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 inform you who I was
          underneath that 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 poured it forth, 
Who often walked lonesome walks thinking
          of his dearest friends, his lovers, 
Who pensive, away from one he loved, often
          lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night,
Who, dreading lest the one he loved might 
          after all be indifferent to him, felt the
          sick feeling—O sick! sick! 
Whose happiest days were those, far away
          _^^{through fields,} in woods, or on hills, he
          and another, wandering hand in hand, 
          they twain, apart from other men.
Who ever, as he sauntered the streets, 
          curved with his arm the manly shoulder
          of his friend—while the curving arm of
          his friend rested upon him also. 

_________