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me, mind not so much my poems, Nor speak to 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, |
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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, 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. |
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