_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.