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NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; |
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Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man |
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In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; |
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Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. |
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But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me |
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Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan |
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With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan, |
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O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee? |
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Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. |
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Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, |
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Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer. |
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Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród |
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Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year |
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Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God. |