The Death of Regret

I opened my shutter at sunrise,
  And looked at the hill hard by,
And I heartily grieved for the comrade
  Who wandered up there to die.

I let in the morn on the morrow,
  And failed not to think of him then,
As he trod up that rise in the twilight,
  And never came down again.

I undid the shutter a week thence,
  But not until after I'd turned
Did I call back his last departure
  By the upland there discerned.

Uncovering the casement long later,
  I bent to my toil till the gray,
When I said to myself, 'Ah -- what ails me,
  To forget him all the day!'

As daily I flung back the shutter
  In the same blank bald routine,
He scarcely once rose to remembrance
  Through a month of my facing the scene.

And ah, seldom now do I ponder
  At the window as heretofore
On the long valued one who died yonder,
  And wastes by the sycamore.