No, I'll not carry in comfort, despair, not feast on thee, not unto its slack they may be these last strands of man in me, or cry I can no more I can. Can something hope wish they come, not choose not to be? But I, but oh thou terrible, why was thou rude on me? Thou wring world right foot rock, thy line lim against me, and scan with thawt some devouring eyes my bruised bones, and fanow in turns of tempest may hate them, may frantic to avoid thee and flee. Why, my chaff, my fly, my grain's life shearing clear, in all that toil, that coal, since seems I kiss the rod, hand-rather, heart-low, lap-strength, style-joy, would laugh, cheer, cheer, whom thou, they havent hand-leagued flung me, but draw'd me, or me that fought him, is it yes, why am thysworn that night, that year of now-done darkness, I wretch, may wrestling with my God, my God.