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Poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins


Carrion Comfort


Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist Ч slack they may be Ч these last strands 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 devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

   Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, 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 wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.



Gerard Manley Hopkins


Gerard Manley Hopkins's other poems:
  1. Harry Ploughman
  2. Ribblesdale
  3. Repeat That, Repeat
  4. Barnfloor and Winepress
  5. Tom's Garland


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