At my age one begins
To chalk up all his sins,
Hoping to wipe the slate
Before it is too late.
Therefore I call to mind
All memories of the kind
That make me wince and sweat
And tremble with regret.
What do these prove to be?
In every one, I see
Shocked faces that, alas,
Now know me for an ass.
Fatuities that I
Have uttered, drunk or dry,
Return now in a rush
And make my old cheek blush.
But how can I repent
From mere embarrassment?
Damn-foolishness can't well
Entitle me to Hell.
Well, I shall put the blame
On the pride that's in my shame.
Of that I must be shriven
Before I'll be forgiven.
-Richard Wilbur-
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