Walt Whitman

Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours

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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