AT AN END.

FORGIVE what wrong was mine, my friend,

For I repent the half I said;

The sharpest hate may have an end,

Since love forgets its dead.

For now the very sun is dim,

The very moon is spent, and must

Go out. Below the cold sea-rim

The low stars drop like dust.

No room is here for blame or praise,

No care for vanish'd loss or gain,

No more as in those bitter days

Do I regard my pain.

Life had been other than it is,

Had we kept pace with equal feet;

For even the little love we miss

Makes all love seem less sweet.

But when grow dark the moon and sun,

And love and hate wax faint indeed,

You may regret what both have done, -

But I pay little heed.