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.