Above All Regret Poem by T. M. Moore

I guess I'll never traipse through snow soft woods 
and fields I call my own, to feel the quiet,  
and know the lovely loneliness of God's

scarce-sin-touched glory. And I guess the night
sky will remain a mystery to me - all
those ancient lamps and blinking, beckoning lights.

And what chance is there that I'll learn the call
of every local bird? Or know the name
of every plant and tree, the very small

up to the very great? I guess the same
is true for many other things my mind
delights to contemplate. But I'm to blame,  

and no one else. I live so far behind
what I imagine; things I'd like to do
or learn just slip away before I find 

the time or inclination to pursue
them. But the hankering lingers, and the sad
regret of time and wealth that just slipped through

my careless, thoughtless fingers. It's too bad,
too bad. But all this pointless thinking of
those things I might have learned or done or had

resolves in gratitude for what above
all these is mine: Your love, your wondrous love.