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Leaves of Grass (1867)
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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;
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Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of
the tenderest lover,
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The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend,
his lover, was fondest,
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Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measure-
less ocean of love within him—and freely
pour'd it forth,
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Who often walk'd lonesome walks, thinking of his
dear friends, his lovers,
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Who pensive, away from one he lov'd, often lay sleep-
less and dissatisfied at night,
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Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one
he lov'd might secretly be indifferent to him,
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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,
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Who oft as he saunter'd 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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