| |
| 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 |
5 |
| 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 |
10 |
| May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small |
|
| Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep, |
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| Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all |
|
| Life death does end and each day dies with
sleep. |