When we sit down at the cross formed by two ways

And must choose regret along with remorse

And dual fate forces us to pick one course

And the keystone of two arches fixes our gaze,

You alone, mistress of the secret, attest

To the downward slope where one road goes.

You know the other path that our steps chose,

As one chooses the cedar for a chest.

And not through virtue, which we don’t possess.

And not for duty, which we do not love.

But, as carpenters find the center of

A board, to seek the center of wretchedness,

And to approach the axis of distress,

And for the dumb need to feel the whole curse,

And to do whats harder and to suffer worse,

And to take the blow in all its fulness.

Through that sleight-of-hand, that very artfulness,

Which will never make us happy anymore,

Let us, o queen, at least preserve our honor,

And along with it our simple tenderness.