Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these last strands of man In me {'o}r, 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 bruis{`e}d bones? and fan, O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avo{'i}d 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 wh{'o}m though? The h{'e}ro whose h{'e}aven-handling fl{'u}ng me, f{'o}ot tr{'o}d Me? or m{'e} that f{'o}ught him? O wh{'i}ch one? is it e{'a}ch one? That n{'i}ght, that y{'e}ar Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.