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 foot rock? Lay a limb 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 (it seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! sapped 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.
O now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
Doesn't mean I don't rather like it ;-D Xxxc
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