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.