Not， I'll not， carrion¹ comfort， Despair， not feast on thee；

    Not untwist——slack they may be——these last strands² 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 devouring³ eyes my bruisèd bones？ and fan，

    O in turns of tempest， me heaped there； me frantic⁴ to avoid thee

    and flee？

    Why？ That my chaff⁵ might fly； my grain lie， sheer and clear.

    Nay⁶ in all that toil⁷， 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 wretch⁸ lay wrestling with （my God！） my God.