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.









