when I rose at dawn

“
  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.
When I Heard at the Close of the Day
  When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d
      with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for
      me that follow’d,
  And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still
      I was not happy,
  But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
      refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
  When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the
      morning light,
”
—Walt Whitman
Multitudes are Seeded by Leaves of Grass.
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