Some keep the Sabbath going to Church — I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister — And an Orchard, for a Dome— - Emily Dickinson

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

Its 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.

Till I loved I never liked enough.

This was in the white of the year,
That was in the green,
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As daisies now to be seen.

Looking back is best that is left,
Or if it be before,
Retrospection is prospect’s half,
Sometimes almost more.