To M——

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.

5

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.