What remorse have you come to say?
Leave now or do make a pleasant stay,
Said the old man, as he lay in a taut grass of May.
His heart spoke into a shape of clay.
A storied book and crown;
Fairy dream and fairy dust;
Have you come now to but frown?
In ill pursuits to shunt what was just.
Is it all, you seek and dare to keep?
Nothing now more than rubble in a heap.
Above the tainted hearts you dined.
Once claimed by force as “mine”,
But the man said to his old heart;
A young man’s dream I’ve bought and brought.
I’ve wanted it all in a thought to be.
Is there truly nothing more to see?
As time now threads such a spindle I’ve dreaded;
Of what more or less I’ve made unabated,
And a fear furloughed comes to fraught,
So that there is nothing but black rot,
Upon this shape of clay.
Just bury me by olden births of May.
For I have no payment nor pleasance today.
From what remorse you have come to say.
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