Seventh Verse

The clouds come like ill-balanced crags,
Shouldering, Down valleys smokes the gloom.
The thunder brags. In joints of sparkling jags
The lightnings leap. The day of doom!
I cry ‘O rocks and mountains make me room.’
And yet I know it would be better so,
Aye, sweet to taste beside this woe.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins, ‘Fragments of Pilate,’ 7

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