Walt Whitman Poems

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1
YET, yet, ye downcast hours, I know ye also;
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.

2
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.

3
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?

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