Friday, April 11, 2008

Regret by W. Whitman Bailey

We sundered at the parting of the ways,
But why, I know not; only that, alas!
We ne'er shall meet in all the coming days.
In deep regret I note the hours pass;
My more than friend, how could there thus arise
A cloud to steal thee from my loving eyes?
Left I perhaps some worthy deed undone?
Or spoke some word unheeding all its weight?
I only know that precious hours are gone—
And ken those saddest words of all—"Too late!"

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