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 ?
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,