Of hot convulsions of dismembered lands,
And slow constricting centuries of cold.
So in our own lives, even to this day,
We carry in the chambers of the mind
The tale of errors, failures, and misdeeds
That we call sins, of all our early lives.
And the recurrent consciousness of this
We call remorse. The unrelenting gauge,
Now measuring past error,—this is shame.
And in our feverish overconsciousness,