Are racked by throes of impotent remorse,
Dark, fierce, and bitter; for themselves are lost,
And still neglecting what remains of life,
They strive by backward reachings to redeem
The irredeemable. Why pass the hours,
The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets,
When each regret but lops another bough,
Full of green promise, from the tree of life?
You, who in your bereavement truly feel
This truth, expressed so sadly and so well: