Thou hast wounded the spirit that loved thee And cherish'd thine image for years; Thou hast taught me at last to forget thee, In secret, in silence, and tears.

I think it's a little too soon. The memories are still fresh, the wounds still raw.

Ah me! we wound where we never intended to strike; we create anger where we never meant harm; and these thoughts are the thorns in our cushion. - William Makepeace Thackeray,

Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head, The least a death to nature.

I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me.

The wounded gladiator forswears all fighting, but soon forgetting his former wound resumes his arms. [Lat., Saucius ejurat pugnam gladiator, et idem Immemor antiqui vulneris arma capit.]