No Worst, There Is None

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, w{'o}rld-sorrow; on an {'a}ge-old {'a}nvil w{'i}nce and s{'i}ng --

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.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Comments (10)

a mothers worry is never done she will love you till the setting sun? physical appearance can deceive but beauty never dies inside!
(She is a MOTHER! ! .) **And that’s the bottom line. A significantly fine poem. Thank you.
nice poem; every mother's face does have a story of glamor, if you look closely through the eyes of her child.
Oh! What mothers go through and still retain their soft natures. A lovely piece keep it up.
Your 'MOTHER' is a beautiful poem. Thanks for this beautiful piece. It glorifies all mothers, like my own, who: 'Tells no story of glamor. But she laughs She smiles She is a MOTHER! ! ' I also liked Valsa George's comment.
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