32 lines
952 B
Plaintext
32 lines
952 B
Plaintext
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1830
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TO M--
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by Edgar Allan Poe
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O! I care not that my earthly lot
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Hath little of Earth in it,
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That years of love have been forgot
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In the fever of a minute:
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I heed not that the desolate
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Are happier, sweet, than I,
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But that you meddle with my fate
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Who am a passer by.
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It is not that my founts of bliss
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Are gushing- strange! with tears-
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Or that the thrill of a single kiss
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Hath palsied many years-
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'Tis not that the flowers of twenty springs
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Which have wither'd as they rose
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Lie dead on my heart-strings
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With the weight of an age of snows.
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Not that the grass- O! may it thrive!
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On my grave is growing or grown-
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But that, while I am dead yet alive
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I cannot be, lady, alone.
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-THE END-
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