Not,
I'll not, carrion comfort,
Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of
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
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me?
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 andflee?
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}ngme, f{'o}ot
Me? or m{'e} that f{'o}ught him?
O wh{'i}ch one? is it e{'a}ch one?
Thatn{'i}ght, that
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
