Classic Poem

Well said the master, — " The worst grief of all,
Is to remember, in our hours of woe,
How blest we have been! " It were rightly so,
If, like Adam's memory of his wretched fall,
To the keen thought of pleasures ever gone,
There be the sting of self-reproach, to say,
" The seed is of thy planting — go thy way,
And let the curse be on thy head alone! "
This is the bitterer truth, — but it is one,
In bitterness thrice blessed, if it brings
Repentance, that, with healing on its wings,
Will cheer the future, and the past atone:
It were a grace to pray for, night and day,
In ashes, — while the world is out at play.