I slink[1205] through the garden, I stop by the well,
I see him totter,[1206] I hear her shriek!—
What sort of a tale will I have to tell?
But here I am![1207] What’s the use of grieving?
Five years—will it be too late to begin?
Can sober thinking and honest living
Still make me the man I might have been?
I’ll sleep. Oh![1208] would I could wake to-morrow
In that old room, to find, at last,
That all my troubles and all their sorrow