Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but o thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foots rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan, o in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since ( seems)
I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though?
The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one?
That night, that year
Of now done darkness
I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
[No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch of Grief]
No worst, there is none.
Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief- woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing— Then lull, then leave off.
Fury had shrieked ‘No lingering! Let me be fell:’ force I must be brief’.
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep.
Here! creep, Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind:
All Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
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Carrion Comfort
