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.

World-mothering air, air wild, Wound with thee, in thee isled, Fold home, fast fold thy child.

That night, that year Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

I say that we are wound With mercy round and round As if with air.

Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. It was a hell beyond expression. I thank God it always passed. A school of fish appeared around the …

I wonder whether, in the history of all the civilisations that have ever been, a more insanely optimistic notion has ever been entertained than that you and I,…

Mon unique esperance est dans mon desespoir.