FORGIVE what wrong was mine, my friend,
For I repent the half I said;
The sharpest hate may have an end,
Since love forgets its dead.
For now the very sun is dim,
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The very moon is spent, and must
Go out. Below the cold sea-rim
The low stars drop like dust.
No room is here for blame or praise,
No care for vanish'd loss or gain,
No more as in those bitter days
Do I regard my pain.
Life had been other than it is,
Had we kept pace with equal feet;
For even the little love we miss
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