Classic Poem

Nay , let me own it is but vain regret,
Not wise, to disavow life's unity,
To cry out, Oh, it was a child, not I,
It was a boy, it was a lover's fret
Caught in the magic of a golden net,
It was a run-away tracked by a hound
He needs must slay, must tread into the ground, —
Groping about to find some oubliette.

It was the very self, the self indeed,
Said the true word or thought the treacherous thought;
The very self fate-driven, did the deed.
That won the prize, or black-crowned doomster brought:
And thus it is we look beyond the shore
That girds our isle, while Hope flies on before.