The Bones of Recompense

I pity you who never have been wrong.
You hold your life with calculating tong
Then weigh the subject on a fine steel spring
Precision made from dies in a polished ring.

Into your measured mind has never come
The feel of deep regret, the knowing gloom
Of ravished half hours spent in smothering rain;
You have not felt that pungent pain.

I pity you, for in regret you grow.
The bones of recompense you learn to throw
Upon a heap that stacks up high to meet
The icy leaves among the bittersweet.