Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist—slack they may be—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.
The boughs, the boughs are bare enough,
But earth has not yet felt the snow.
Frost-fringed our ivies are, and rough
With spiked rime the brambles show,
The hoarse leaves crawl on hissing ground,
What time the sighing wind is low.
But if the rain-blasts be unbound,
And from dank feathers wring the drops,
The clogg’d brook runs with choking sound,
Kneading the mounded mire that stops
His channel under clammy coats
Of foliage fallen in the copse.
A single passage of weak notes
Is all the winter bird dare try.
The moon, half-orb’d, ere sunset floats
So glassy-white about the sky,
So like a berg of hyaline,
Pencill’d with blue so daintily—
I never saw her so divine.
But thro’ black branches—rarely drest
In streaming scarfs that smoothly shine,
Shot o’er with lights—the emblazon’d west,
Where yonder crimson fire-ball sets,
Trails forth a purfled-silken vest.
Long beds I see of violets
In beryl lakes which they reef o’er:
A Pactolean river frets
Against its tawny-golden shore:
All ways the molten colours run:
Till, sinking ever more and more
Into an azure mist, the sun
Drops down engulf’d, his journey done.