I know what my remorse will be, Then when her final pulses stir: "She did so many things for me, And I so few, so few for her. "Dear, patient hands that toiled so long, Where were your kisses, overdue? Dear, patient feet, so swift, so strong, Where was the box of nard for you?" On that sad day, alas! will come The saddest grief, the blackest blot: "I saw, and yet my lips were dumb; I knew, and yet I did it not." |