The Death Of Regret

I opened my shutter at sunrise,
    And looked at the hill hard by,
And I heartily grieved for the comrade
    Who 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 turned
Did I call back his last departure
    By 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 shutter
    In the same blank bald routine,
He scarcely once rose to remembrance
    Through a month of my facing the scene.

And ah, seldom now do I ponder
    At the window as heretofore
On the long valued one who died yonder,
    And wastes by the sycamore.