The Death of Regret
I opened my shutter at sunrise,And looked at the hill hard by,And I heartily grieved for the comradeWho wandered up there to die.
I let in the morn on the morrow,And failed not to think of him then,As he trod up that rise in the twilight,And never came down again.
I undid the shutter a week thence,But not until after I’d turnedDid I call back his last departureBy the upland there discerned.
Uncovering the casement long later,I bent to my toil till the gray,When I said to myself, “Ah—what ails me,To forget him all the day!”
As daily I flung back the shutterIn the same blank bald routine,He scarcely once rose to remembranceThrough a month of my facing the scene.
And ah, seldom now do I ponderAt the window as heretoforeOn the long valued one who died yonder,And wastes by the sycamore.
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