Poem Hunter
Carrion Comfort
(28 July 1844 – 8 June 1889 / Stratford, Essex)

Carrion Comfort

Poem By Gerard Manley Hopkins

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist -- slack they may be -- these last strands of man
In me {'o}r, 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 bruis{`e}d bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avo{'i}d thee and

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 wh{'o}m though? The h{'e}ro whose h{'e}aven-handling fl{'u}ng
me, f{'o}ot tr{'o}d
Me? or m{'e} that f{'o}ught him? O wh{'i}ch one? is it e{'a}ch one? That
n{'i}ght, that y{'e}ar
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

User Rating: 2,9 / 5 ( 104 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

why so many {'o}'s
To live your whole life based on a scam: not only that but to know that you are part of that scam
Very intricate technical poem. Hopkins felt close to despair at times, even though he was a priest.
This is a finely-wrought work of art the complexity of which almost distracts from its own literary craftsmanship. This erudite writing reminds me sadly of how wide the gap has become of what our culture chooses for entertainment compared to prior periods.
Weary! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.