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, wórld-sorrow; on an
áge-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.
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