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.