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.
