Passion Flowers (Watson)/A Confession

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A Confession.
Say, what doth it profit, my soul, my soul, That I weep and cry as I longing wait?Alas! the most worthless of earthly things Is repentance, my soul, when it comes too late.
I loved him? Yes, I will swear it now, With a madness never confessed nor told;I loved him, and yet for a triumph small, His heart I broke—his honor I sold.
Could I draw near to his distant place, Where he might know each passionate tear,And the anguished cry of my tortured soul, I would rend the heavens, but he should hear.
"Oh! Love," I would cry; "Forgive, forgive!" If he answered, then I could bear my fate;But, ah! the most hopeless of earthly things Is repentance, my soul, when it comes too late.
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