Edgar Allan Poe > Stories/Poems > To M...

To M... 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.