Recorders Ages Hence. - Poem by Walt Whitman

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 measureless 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 sleepless 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 men,
Who oft as he saunter’d the streets, curv’d with his arm the shoulder of his
friend—while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.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 measureless 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 sleepless 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 men,
Who oft as he saunter’d the streets, curv’d with his arm the shoulder of his
friend—while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.