Long was I held by the life that exhibits itself, By what is done in the houses or streets, or in company,
The usual adjustments and pleasures - the things which all conform to and which the writers celebrate:
But now I know a life which does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,
And now escaping, I celebrate that concealed but substantial life,
I celebrate the need of the love of comrades.
(Walt Whitman, Calamus)
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