Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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DESPAIRING cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and
night,

The sad voice of Death—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 destina-
tion.

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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