 | Poems by Emily Dickinson |  |
68
XLIII.
REMORSE.
Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir,—
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.
Her companies astir,—
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.
It's past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.
Remorse is cureless,—the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 't is his institution,—
The complement of hell.
Not even God can heal;
For 't is his institution,—
The complement of hell.
| Poems by Emily Dickinson | |