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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 bruis`ed bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avo'id 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 wh'om though? The h'ero whose h'eaven-handling fl'ung me, f'oot tr'od
Me? or m'e that f'ought him? O wh'ich one? is it e'ach one? That n'ight, that
y'ear
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
1885
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