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, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-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.
[10] [5]
GLOSSARY GLOSSARY
[1] Pitched: thrown forward [1] pitch: sound; sticky tar-like substance [2] forepangs: previous pains [2] wring: squeeze; twist [5] herds-long: as long as a herd of animals [5] main: group
[6] wórld-sorrow: the sorrow and pain that is part of the human condition
[6] áge-old: existed since the beginning of time [6] anvil: heavy steel or iron block (usually found in a forge) [7] Fury: a spirit of punishment in Greek mythology [8] fell: quick (as in ‘one fell swoop’)
[10] no-man-fathomed: no man has ever climbed or surmounted this obstacle
[12] Durance: endurance [13] Wretch: unfortunate or unhappy person