There's a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . .
Do you not know it yet?
For deeds undone Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due, Till there seems naught so despicable as you In all the grin o' the sun.
Like an old shoe The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie About the beach of Time, till by and by Death, that derides you too -
Death, as he goes His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray, With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way;
And then--and then, who knows But the kind Grave Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm, In that black bridewell working out his term, Hanker and grope and crave?
'Poor fool that might -
That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be, Think of it, here and thus made over to me In the implacable night!'
And writhing, fain And like a triumphing lover, he shall take His fill where no high memory lives to make His obscene victory vain.
