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TO M--

TO M--

Edgar Allan Poe, 1830

    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.

Last modified: February 17 2015 15:22:14.