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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;
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 measure-
less ocean of love within him—and freely
pour'd it forth,
Who often walk'd lonesome walks, thinking of his
dear friends, his lovers,
Who pensive, away from one he lov'd, often lay sleep-
less and dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one
he lov'd might secretly be indifferent to him,
Whose happiest days were far away, through fields,
in woods, on hills, he and another, wandering
hand in hand, they twain, apart from other
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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