OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, <br />That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish <br />Beyond comparison the worst are those <br />By our own folly, or our guilt brought on: <br />In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind <br />Has this to say, "It was no deed of mine:" <br />But, when to all the evil of misfortune <br />This sting is added, "Blame thy foolish self!" <br />Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse, <br />The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— <br />Of guilt, perhaps, when we've involvèd others, <br />The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us; <br />Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin! <br />O burning hell! in all thy store of torments <br />There's not a keener lash! <br />Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart <br />Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, <br />Can reason down its agonizing throbs; <br />And, after proper purpose of amendment, <br />Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? <br />O happy, happy, enviable man! <br />O glorious magnanimity of soul!<br /><br />Robert Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/remorse-a-fragment/
