a spring afternoon's reading (if gerard manley hopkins hadn't existed, i would of invented him):

not, i'll not, carrion comfort, despair, not feast on thee;
not untwist-slack they may be-these last strands of man
in me or, 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 bruised 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, cheer.
cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling
flung me, foot trod
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.

-carrion comfort, gerard manley hopkins, 1885