To M--

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.