Does he too harbor his friendship silent and endless?
harbor his anguish and passion?
Does some stray reminder, or the casual mention of a
name, bring the fit back upon him, taciturn and
deprest?
Does he see himself reflected in me? In these hours,
does he see the face of his hours reflected?
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10.
You bards of ages hence! when you refer to me, mind
not so much my poems,
Nor speak of me that I prophesied of The States, and
led them the way of their glories;
But 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 measureless
ocean of love within him—and freely poured
it forth,
Who often walked lonesome walks, thinking of his
dear friends, his lovers,
Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleepless
and dissatisfied at night,
Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one
he loved might secretly be indifferent to him,
