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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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