To M—— Edgar Allan Poe

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.