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Gerard Manley Hopkins - Carrion Comfort
Work rating: Medium

Not, I`ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me {`o}r, 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{`e}d bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avo{`i}d 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{`o}m though? The h{`e}ro whose h{`e}aven-handling fl{`u}ng
me, f{`o}ot tr{`o}d
Me? or m{`e} that f{`o}ught him? O wh{`i}ch one? is it e{`a}ch one? That
n{`i}ght, that y{`e}ar
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
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