Sunday Sonnet.

Donne has been used, so let is go from that recusant to a Catholic convert, who found that yoke hard, so hard. For the Church he gave up England for an Ireland that mistrusted his Jesuitism and blood — with good historical reasons.

Many speculate on depression. They forget that a man doing his duty has to face fear and doubt. Daily.

‘No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief.’

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, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old anvil wince and sing —
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 Manley Hopkins