But If I Can't Be Sorry, Why,

This Have I Known Always: Love Is No More Than The Wide Blossom Which The Wind Assails, Than The Great Tide That Treads The Shifting Shore, Strewing Fresh Wreckage Gathered In The Gales; Pity Me That The Heart Is Slow To Learn, That The Swift Mind Beholds At Every Turn.

O Troubled Forms, O Early Love Unfortunate And Hard, Time Has Estranged You Into A Jewel Cold And Pure

Into The Darkness They Go, The Wise And The Lovely.

I Know What My Heart Is Like Since Your Love Died: It Is Like A Hollow Ledge Holding A Little Pool Left There By The Tide, A Little Tepid Pool, Drying Inward From The Edge.

For My Omniscience Paid I Toll In Infinite Remorse Of Soul. All Sin Was Of My Sinning, All Atoning Mine, And Mine The Gall Of All Regret. Mine Was The Weight Of Every Brooded Wrong, The Hate That Stood Behind Each Envious Thrust, Mine Every Greed, Mine Every Lust. And All The While For Every Grief, Each Suffering, I Craved Relief With Individual Desire, – Craved All In Vain! And Felt Fierce Fire About A Thousand People Crawl; Perished With Each, — Then Mourned For All!