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, leave off. Fury had shrieked æNo 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.