-
“No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,”
- 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
- 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
- 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.
