Carrion Comfort

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;

Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man

In me {'o}r, 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 bruis{`e}d bones? and fan,

O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avo{'i}d 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 wh{'o}m though? The h{'e}ro whose h{'e}aven-handling fl{'u}ng

me, f{'o}ot tr{'o}d

Me? or m{'e} that f{'o}ught him? O wh{'i}ch one? is it e{'a}ch one? That

n{'i}ght, that y{'e}ar

Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.