contemplativeCarrion Comfort
No, 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 would’st 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.
