No Worst, There Is None
Pitched past pitch of grief, the sonnet asks where the comforting is and is given no answer, and the cries come herded and huddled in a main like cattle under the blow. The mind has mountains, cliffs of fall sheer and no-man-fathomed, and the only counsel anywhere in it is that whoever has hung there has never hung there long. One of the Dublin sonnets of 1885, written on scraps and sent to no editor.
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- companion to ↑ Carrion Comfort
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- 69% · 9 shared
- 65% · 10 shared
- 64% · 11 shared
- 64% · 11 shared
- 64% · 11 shared
- 58% · 8 shared