To an Ingrate
This is to-day, a golden summer’s dayAnd yet—and yetMy vengeful soul will not forgetThe past, forever now forgot, you say.
From that half height where I had sadly climbed,I stretched my hand,I lone in all that land,Down there, where, helpless, you were limed.
Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace,You struggled up.It is a bitter Cup,That now for naught, you turn away your face.
I shall remember this for aye and aye.Whate’er may come,Although my lips are dumb,My spirit holds you to that yesterday.