by Gerard Manley Hopkins

    I wake and feel the fell of dark， not day.

    What hours， O what black hours we have spent

    This night！ what sights you， heart， saw； ways you went！

    And more must， in yet longer light's delay.

    With witness I speak this. But where I say

    Hours I mean years， mean life. And my lament

    Is cries countless， cries like dead letters sent

    To dearest him that lives alas！ away.

    I am gall， I am heartburn. God's most deep decree

    Bitter would have me taste： my taste was me；

    Bones built in me， flesh filled， blood brimmed the curse.

    Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see

    The lost are like this， and their scourge to be

    As I am mine， their sweating selves， but worse.