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Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series Two

XLIII.

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REMORSE.

Remorse is memory awake, Her companies astir, — A presence of departed acts At window and at door.

It's past set down before the soul, And lighted with a match, Perusal to facilitate Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless, — the disease Not even God can heal; For 't is his institution, — The complement of hell.

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