Text of the Poem

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, 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.

Footnotes

  1. The tone is despairing and questioning, reflecting a struggle to find solace in the face of overwhelming sorrow.

    — Allegra Keys, Owl Eyes Editor
  2. The speaker appeals to the Virgin Mary, seeking relief from suffering.

    — Allegra Keys, Owl Eyes Editor
  3. Alliteration-the repetition of consonant sounds at the beginning of words, enhancing the musical quality of the poem-is used repeatedly throughout this poem.

    — Allegra Keys, Owl Eyes Editor