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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.