Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, 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 foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me?
scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd 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, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me,
fóot tród
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.
(insert,
separate, a post-script to a letter of love)
Purify
the pain, O, that leads to strength
For
I know you, Lover, Master,
Not
a word is written in your plan
That
cannot turn to Good.
