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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 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? Oh which one? is it each one? That
night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay
wrestling with (my God!) my God.
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