Nay, let me own it is but vain regret, Not wise, to disavow life's unity, To cry out, Oh, it was a child, not I, It was a boy, it was a lover's fret Caught in the magic of a golden net, It was a run-away tracked by a hound He needs must slay, must tread into the ground,— Groping about to find some oubliette. It was the very self, the self...Learn More