NO worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting? Mary, mother of us, where is your relief? My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing -- Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No lingering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'. O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep, Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all Life death does end and each day dies with sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALINESE WITCH DOCTOR by KAREN SWENSON A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 3. AMARYLLIS by THOMAS CAMPION THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN by RUDYARD KIPLING THE LOVER: A BALLAD by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU THE FISHERMAN by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |