Edgar Allan Poe — To M——

1 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— 2 I heed not that the desolate         Are happier, sweet, than I— But that you meddle with my fate         Who am a passer by. 3 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— 4 '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. 5 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.