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 lionlimb 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 (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped 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
Of now done darkness I wretch
lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
