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 ling-
ering! 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 [ibid.p.167]
No comments:
Post a Comment