Remorse
Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir, —
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.
It's past set down before the soul.
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.
Remorse is cureless, — the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 't is his institution, —
The complement of hell.
Emily Dickinson
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