A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove, late of a winter
unremark’d seated in a corner;
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and seating himself near,
may hold me by the hand;
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going—of drinking and oath and smutty
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.
by Walt Whitman
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