Not, 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 wouldst 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 leaped 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.