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.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, born on December 10, 1830, and died on May 15, 1886, was an American poet who is extensively known for her innovative and poignant use of language and form. Her work, largely unpublished and unknown during her lifetime, has since positioned her among the greatest American poets. Although she seldom left her home, her poetry delved deeply into themes of death, immortality, nature, and human consciousness. Dickinson's unique style continues to influence poets and readers today.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

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Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

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Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, Simple Poetry

English

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Remorse. - A Fragment.

    Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
    That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
    Beyond comparison the worst are those
    That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
    In every other circumstance, the mind
    Has this to say, 'It was no deed of mine;'
    But when to all the evil of misfortune
    This sting is added, 'Blame thy foolish self!'
    Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
    The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt,
    Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
    The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
    Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
    O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
    There's not a keener lash!
    Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
    Feels al...

Robert Burns

Memorials.

Death sets a thing significant
The eye had hurried by,
Except a perished creature
Entreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanships
In crayon or in wool,
With "This was last her fingers did,"
Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy,
The stitches stopped themselves,
And then 't was put among the dust
Upon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave,
Whose pencil, here and there,
Had notched the place that pleased him, --
At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not,
For interrupting tears
Obliterate the etchings
Too costly for repairs.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Remembrance.

Remembrance has a rear and front, --
'T is something like a house;
It has a garret also
For refuse and the mouse,

Besides, the deepest cellar
That ever mason hewed;
Look to it, by its fathoms
Ourselves be not pursued.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Trying To Forget.

Bereaved of all, I went abroad,
No less bereaved to be
Upon a new peninsula, --
The grave preceded me,

Obtained my lodgings ere myself,
And when I sought my bed,
The grave it was, reposed upon
The pillow for my head.

I waked, to find it first awake,
I rose, -- it followed me;
I tried to drop it in the crowd,
To lose it in the sea,

In cups of artificial drowse
To sleep its shape away, --
The grave was finished, but the spade
Remained in memory.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Regret And Remorse

Regret with streaming eyes doth seem alway
A maiden widowed on her wedding day.

While dark Remorse, with eyes too sad for tears,
A crushed, desponding Magdalene appears.

One, with a hungering heart unsatisfied,
Mourns for imagined joys that were denied.

The other, pierced by recollected sin,
Broods o'er the scars of pleasures that have been.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Remorse After Death

When, sullen beauty, you will sleep and have
As resting place a fine black marble tomb,
When for a boudoir in your manor-home
You have a hollow pit, a sodden cave,

When stone, now heavy on your fearful breast
And loins once supple in their tempered fire,
Will stop your heart from beating, and desire,
And keep your straying feet from wantonness,

The Tomb, who knows what yearning is about
(The Tomb grasps what the poet has to say)
Will question you these nights you cannot rest,

'Vain courtesan, how could you live that way
And not have known what all the dead cry out?'
And like remorse the worm will gnaw your flesh.

Charles Baudelaire