Classic Poem

I HAVE paid well for every sin
And blotted out the score;
So great I made my punishment—
Not God could make it more.

But these no man calls sin—too small
For penance or regret—
The tardy thought, the careless kiss,
The groping hand unmet.

The sorrow that I left unsoothed,
The word I left unsaid,—
Ah me! I know what ghosts must stand
About my dying bed.