Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
   Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these last strands of man
   In me or, 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 bruised 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, cheer.
   Cheer whom though? The hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
 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.