1
 
Despairing cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,
The sad voice of Death—the call of my nearest lover, putting forth,
    alarmed, uncertain,
“This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,
Come tell me where I am speeding—tell me my destination.”
 
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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 now recline on, come tell me;”
Old age, alarmed, uncertain—A young woman’s voice appealing to me,
    for comfort,
A young man’s voice, “Shall I not escape?”

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