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a poem by Emily Dickinson
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- Remorse is memory awake,
- Her companies astir,--
- A presence of departed acts
- At window and at door.
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- Its past set down before the
soul,
- And lighted with a match,
- Perusal to facilitate
- Of its condensed dispatch.
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- Remorse is cureless,--the disease
- Not even God can heal;
- For 'tis His institution,--
- The complement of hell.
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