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To M--
By Edgar Allan Poe
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.
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