O! I care not that my earthly lotHath — little of Earth in it —That years of love have been forgotIn the fever of a minute —I heed not that the desolateAre happier, sweet, than I —But that you meddle with my fateWho am a passer-by.It is not that my founts of blissAre gushing — strange! with tears —Or that the thrill of a single kissHath palsied many years — ’Tis not that the flowers of twenty springsWhich have wither’d as they roseLie dead on my heart-stringsWith the weight of an age of snows.Nor that the grass — O! may it thrive!On my grave is growing or grown —But that, while I am dead yet aliveI cannot be, lady, alone.
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to m - edgar allan poe