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.