So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
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What a strange thing is the propagation of life! A bubble of seed which may be spilt in a whore's lap, or in the orgasm of a voluptuous dream, might (for aught we know) have formed a Caesar or a Bonaparte -- there is nothing remarkable recorded of their sires, that I know of.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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What atonement is there for blood spilt upon the earth?
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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There is no sense in crying over spilt milk. Why bewail what is done and cannot be recalled?
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There is no sense in crying over spilt milk.
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