"Who often walked lonesome hills, thinking of his dear
friends, his lovers,
Who pensive, way 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 indifferente 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 men,
Who oft, as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arma the
shoulder of his friend - while the arm of his friend rested
upon him also."
Thanks to Walt Withman
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