[from Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, 1860]
Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for I fear I effuse unreturned love;
But now I think there is no unreturned love -- the pay is certain, one way or another,
Doubtless I could not have perceived the universe, or written one of my poems, if I had not
freely given myself to comrades, to love.