Love's stricken 'Why?'
Is all that love can speak -
Built of just a syllable
The hugest hearts that break.

Christina Georgina Rossetti

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless
That only those incredulous of despair
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking & reproach. Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted one, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death -
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch & moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet
If it could weep, it could arise & go.

Elizabeth Barratt Browning

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, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince & wring -
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.

Gerard Manly 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 or, 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 lion limb against me? scan with
darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer & 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.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? Is it each one?
That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God) my God.

Gerard Manly Hopkins

There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in the earth and the stock thereof die in the ground; yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like a plant.

The Book of Job

Death & Dying.......Healing.......Dealing with Anger
About Love.......Love not or no longer returned

Rough Guide to Site.......Site Map

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