[Written for the Charing Cross Album] <br /> <br />I. <br /> <br />Seen, too clear and historic within us, our sins of omission <br />Frown when the Autumn days strike us all ruthlessly bare. <br />They of our mortal diseases find never healing physician; <br />Errors they of the soul, past the one hope to repair. <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />Sunshine might we have been unto seed under soil, or have scattered <br />Seed to ascendant suns brighter than any that shone. <br />Even the limp-legged beggar a sick desperado has flattered <br />Back to a half-sloughed life cheered by the mere human tone.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-main-regret/
