The Death Of Regret

I opened my shutter at sunrise,         And looked at the hill hard by,     And I heartily grieved for the comrade         Who wandered up there to die.     I let in the morn on the morrow,         And failed not to think of him then,     As he trod up that rise in the twilight,         And never came down again.     I undid the shutter a week thence,         But not until after I'd turned     Did I call back his last departure         By the upland there discerned.     Uncovering the casement long later,         I bent to my toil till the gray,     When I said to myself, "Ah what ails me,         To forget him all the day!"     As daily I flung back the shutter         In the same blank bald routine,     He scarcely once rose to remembrance         Through a month of my facing the scene.     And ah, seldom now do I ponder         At the window as heretofore     On the long valued one who died yonder,         And wastes by the sycamore.