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Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours
By Walt Whitman
1819-1892Yet, 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?
DayPoems Poem No. 2112
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The DayPoems web site, www.daypoems.net, is copyright 2001-2005 by Timothy K. Bovee. All rights reserved.
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