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?
A thousand perfect men and women appear.
Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay
children and youths, with offerings.
A mask—a perpetual natural disguiser of herself,
Concealing her face, concealing her form,
Changes and transformations every hour, every moment.
Falling upon her even when she sleeps.
