| |
| NO worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, | |
| More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. | |
| Comforter, where, where is your comforting? | |
| Mary, mother of us, where is your relief? | |
| My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief | 5 |
| Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing— | |
| Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No ling- | |
| ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief’. | |
| |
| O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall | |
| Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap | 10 |
| May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small | |
| Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep, | |
| Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all | |
| Life death does end and each day dies with sleep. | |
| |
| See Notes. |
| |
