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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