Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,
The sad voice of Death--the call of my nearest lover, putting forth,
"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
"_Whither I go from the bed I recline on, come tell me_."
Old age, alarmed, uncertain--A young woman's voice, appealing to me for
A young man's voice, "_Shall I not escape_?"