| |
|
I wake and
feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what
black hours we have spent
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 say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my
lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters
sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.
I
am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones
built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Self yeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I
am mine, their sweating selves, but worse.
|
|
|
