A Glimpse

A glimpse through an interstice caught,

Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night,

and I unremark’d seated in a corner,

Of a youth who loves me and whom I love,

silently approaching and seating himself near,

that he may hold me by the hand,

A long while amid the noises of coming and going,

of drinking and oath and smutty jest,

There we two, content, happy in being together,

speaking little, perhaps not a word.

—Walt Whitman