Nay, let me own it is but vain regret,
Not wise, to disavow life's unity,
To cry out, Oh, it was a child, not I,
It was a boy, it was a lover's fret
Caught in the magic of a golden net,
It was a run-away tracked by a hound
He needs must slay, must tread into the ground,—
Groping about to find some oubliette.

It was the very self, the self indeed,
Said the true word or thought the treacherous thought;
The very self fate-driven, did the deed
That won the prize, or black-crowned doomster brought:
And thus it is we look beyond the shore
That girds our isle, while Hope flies on before.