Classic Poem

There have been anguishes
In the different poetries
Where the man's mind cries
Out on God's deep mercies.
None has denied them,
They are of old time
And a faded rhyme
No living one does condemn.

But half my suffering,
Told out in pencil or
Ink as night came, before
Justice or witan-ring,
Would not gain redress
For its strange seeming.
And a true deeming
Lacked of its witness.

Vain is the use of the mind,
Almost the soul halts here,
Consumed with black fear,
Black fear of a pain-blind
Nature, that craves ending
To such bad being,
Or truly to be seeing
At least the use and mending.