RECORDERS ages hence! <br /> Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior--I will <br /> tell you what to say of me; <br /> Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest <br /> lover, <br /> The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his friend, his lover, was <br /> fondest, <br /> Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love <br /> within him--and freely pour'd it forth, <br /> Who often walk'd lonesome walks, thinking of his dear friends, his <br /> lovers, <br /> Who pensive, away from one he lov'd, often lay sleepless and <br /> dissatisfied at night, <br /> Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he lov'd might <br /> secretly be indifferent to him, <br /> Whose happiest days were far away, through fields, in woods, on <br /> hills, he and another, wandering hand in hand, they twain, <br /> apart from other men, <br /> Who oft as he saunter'd the streets, curv'd with his arm the shoulder <br /> of his friend--while the arm of his friend rested upon him <br /> also. 10<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/recorders-ages-hence/
