Edgar Allan Poe

To M.

O! I care not that my earthly lot Hath little of Earth in it, That years of love have been forgot In the fever of a minute: I heed not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you meddle with my fate Who am a passer by. It is not that my founts of bliss Are gushing- strange! with tears- Or that the thrill of a single kiss Hath palsied many years- ‘Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs Which have wither’d as they rose Lie dead on my heart-strings With the weight of an age of snows. Not that the grass- O! may it thrive! On my grave is growing or grown- But that, while I am dead yet alive I cannot be, lady, alone.