Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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ONE flitting glimpse, caught through an interstice,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room,
around the stove, late of a winter night—And
I unremarked, seated in a corner;

Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently
approaching, and seating himself near, that he
may hold me by the hand;

A long while, amid the noises of coming and going
—of drinking and oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together,
speaking little, perhaps not a word.

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