Читать книгу Complete Works - Walt Whitman - Страница 273

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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.

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?