I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours,
O what black hours we have
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this.
But where I
Hours I mean years, mean life.
And my
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters
To dearest him that lives alas! away.
I am gall,
I am heartburn.
God's most deep
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours.
I
The lost are like this, and their scourge to
As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse.
