Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.
203. Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours
Y
Weights of lead, how ye clog and cling at my ankles!
Earth to a chamber of mourning turns—I hear the o’erweening, mocking voice,
Matter is conqueror—matter, triumphant only, continues onward.
Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me,
The call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarm’d, uncertain,
The Sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,
Come tell me where I am speeding—tell me my destination.
I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,
I approach, hear, behold—the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes, your mute inquiry,
Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me:
Old age, alarm’d, uncertain—A young woman’s voice, appealing to me for comfort;
A young man’s voice, Shall I not escape?