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.