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.
People have been scoring this poem quite lowly. I admire Hopkins' unparalleled portrayal of true anguish to the point where I am unsure as to how somebody could rate this poem so lowly. Perhaps somebody could let me know where their fault is found?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A sincere, strong poem by a priest who possibly has doubts. ' Oh the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall frightful'-a memorable line indeed.