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(carrion Comfort) Post by :deciste Category :Poems Author :Gerard Manley Hopkins Date :August 2011 Read :2745

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(carrion Comfort)

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.

(The end)
Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem: (Carrion Comfort)

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No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief

No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.Comforter is your comforting?Mary, mother of us is your relief?My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chiefWoe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing--Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'. O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fallFrightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheapMay who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our smallDurance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,Wretch, under a comfort serves

(the Soldier) (the Soldier)

(the Soldier)
YES. Why do we all, seeing of a soldier, bless him? blessOur redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part,But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart,Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guessThat, hopes that, makesbelieve, the men must be no less;It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art;And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart,And scarlet wear the spirit of war there express.Mark Christ our King. He knows war, served this soldiering through;He of all can handle a rope best. There he bides in blissNow, and seeing