For all my constant heart, I've constant dread

For all my constant heart, I've constant dread 
That follows me round and notes words I've said:
When rude to those who do love me well,
When kind to cruelty which cannot care,
When lofty to the lowest, who can tell,
And to attentive love simply “not there,”
I fear my offence fellows me past death.

Green between graves my conscience slithers loath,
That would rather gather clouds without a care
But that he founders where I fall, I fell,
Slunk to death whose life was sparse and spare:
Ill-fed by me, by me kept most unwell.
So nightmare interleaves each love-word we've said,
And conscience spikes with nails our love-bed.