Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; <br />Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man <br />In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; <br />Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. <br />But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me <br />Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan <br />With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan, <br />O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee? <br /> <br /> Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. <br />Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, <br />Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer. <br />Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród <br />Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year <br />Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.<br /><br />Gerard Manley Hopkins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/carrion-comfort/
