by Gerard Manley Hopkins

    Not， I'll not， carrion comfort， Despair， not feast on thee；

    Not untwist——slack they may be——these last strands of man

    In me ór， 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 bruisèd 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， chéer.

    Cheer whom though？ The hero whose heaven-handling flung me，

    fóot tród

    Me？ or me that fought him？ O which one？ is it each one？ That night，

    that year

    Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with （my God！） my God.