(Carrion Comfort)

41 of 73 · 1 min of reading

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.

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End of part 41 of 73