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Poemsby Emily Dickinson

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.