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...TWENTY-FOUR HOKKU ON A MODERN THEME by AMY LOWELL IN THE TRENCHES by RICHARD ALDINGTON THE MARMOZET by HILAIRE BELLOC ESSAY ON STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH PLACE FOR A THIRD by ROBERT FROST YOUTH'S PROGENY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |