From where I sat, I thought I saw your face,
And that you caught my glance and turned your head;
Yes, quite as though you’d rather look, instead,
At any other member of the race
Than see my countenance. How out of place
I felt–how lost–how filled with awe and dread.
To think I failed you when I should have led
Your steps through happiness a breathless space.
My turn was gone–too late I saw my fault;
Too late my errors slapped me wide awake,
And mirrored me for what I seem to be.
Remorse no longer helps your dear sweet sake;
Reproach I feel can never reach the vault
To touch your form and bring you back to me.
by Ray Romine Friday, December 3, 1943
