Poems (Truesdell)/Remorse
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REMORSE.
Away! I will not hear of hope!
Oh, mock me not with bliss!
Nor speak of future joys to me!
Such agony as this.
Was born not for a single hour,
To live but for a day;
For life, ah! life is all too short
Such penance sad to pay.
Oh, mock me not with bliss!
Nor speak of future joys to me!
Such agony as this.
Was born not for a single hour,
To live but for a day;
For life, ah! life is all too short
Such penance sad to pay.
Some sorrows bear upon the heart
But for a little while,
Then pass away, like April showers
Before the sun's glad smile.
But no such sorrow do I bear
Within this wounded breast;
Heavy with grief, dim with despair,
My spirit finds no rest.
But for a little while,
Then pass away, like April showers
Before the sun's glad smile.
But no such sorrow do I bear
Within this wounded breast;
Heavy with grief, dim with despair,
My spirit finds no rest.
A father's curse is on my soul—
A mother's broken heart—
A sister's cheek is flushed with shame,
And tears of anguish start.
Then tell me not of happiness,
Until this weary head
Shall lay its sorrow and its shame
Beside the mouldering dead!
A mother's broken heart—
A sister's cheek is flushed with shame,
And tears of anguish start.
Then tell me not of happiness,
Until this weary head
Shall lay its sorrow and its shame
Beside the mouldering dead!