Reaping
Why is it I forget the good 
You brought me in the past, 
And dwell upon the tireless grief 
You wrought me at the last? 
Why is it I forget how kind 
And true you were for years, 
And only think how at the last 
You gave me shame and tears? 
Why is it I forget the fault 
Was mine—my very own, 
And murmur in my sleepless grief 
That it was yours alone? 
This is my punishment. Love’s rose 
Has fallen by the way; 
But on its thorn, that still remains, 
 
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