Blaming myself for all that came before
I cannot tell what I could do to change
The state that we are in, or to implore
That, though you find my way of thinking strange
You do not, for that reason and no other,
Leave me inconsolate. Let me make good
The trouble I have caused, and let me smother
What I did not with what I swear I would
If you will let me. Do not think me rough
Because past times have shown I reason oddly;
Think rather that I did not do enough
Because I ran in circles most ungodly.
But having found, in your expressive face
My only heaven, let me find your grace.
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