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 SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS A WORD TO THE WEST END by THOMAS ASHE THE SCEPTIC by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE TREE by BJORNSTJERNE MARTINIUS BJORNSON MONODY TO THE SOUND OF ZITHERS by KAY BOYLE TAKE YOUR CHOICE: AND PERHAPS GELETT BURGESS by BERTON BRALEY ASOLANDO: THE LADY AND THE PAINTER by ROBERT BROWNING |