Classic Poem

You 'LL say when here again after it all
— I recollect these things, that I devise,
Like a poor devot in confessional,
— By saying aloud to make them otherwise,

And with the thrust of that terrific guilt
— Grown soft and coward, to talk away the stain. —
Not so — The wrong is done, the blood is spilt,
— I know it — if sense at all be in my brain.

'T is sorry homage, yes, and pitiful,
— After so long to bring before your eyes
The frayed and dusty flowers of my soul
— With such belated show of sacrifice.