Walt Whitman Poems

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1
DESPAIRING cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,
The sad voice of Death—the call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarmed,
uncertain,
This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,
Come tell me where I am speeding—tell me my destination.

2
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 now recline on, come tell me;
Old age, alarmed, uncertain—A young woman’s voice appealing to me, for comfort,
A young man’s voice, Shall I not escape?

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