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Full Online Book HomePoemsNo Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief
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No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief Post by :nparekh Category :Poems Author :Gerard Manley Hopkins Date :August 2011 Read :1328

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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, 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 ling-
ering! 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.

(The end)
Gerard Manley Hopkins's poem: No Worst, There Is None. Pitched Past Pitch Of Grief

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Tom's Garland Tom's Garland

Tom's Garland
upon the UnemployedTOM--garlanded with squat and surly steelTom; then Tom's fallowbootfellow piles pickBy him and rips out rockfire homeforth--sturdy Dick;Tom Heart-at-ease, Tom Navvy: he is all for his mealSure, 's bed now. Low be it: lustily he his low lot (feelThat ne'er need hunger, Tom; Tom seldom sick,Seldomer heartsore; that treads through, prickproof, thickThousands of thorns, thoughts) swings though. Common-wealLittle I reck ho! lacklevel in, if all had bread:What! Country is honour enough in all us--lordly head,With heaven's lights high hung round, or, mother-groundThat mammocks, mighty foot. But no way sped,Nor mind nor mainstrength; gold go garlandedWith, perilous, O no; nor

(carrion Comfort) (carrion Comfort)

(carrion Comfort)
NOT, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;Not untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of manIn 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 meThy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scanWith 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)