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POEMS.
XLIII.
REMORSE.
REMORSE is memory awake,
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.
Remorse is cureless,— the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 't is his institution,—
The complement of hell.
