by Edgar Allan Poe
June 2nd, 2008 at 12:31 am (Public Domain)
I heed not that my earthly lot
Hath–little of Earth in it–
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:–
I mourn not that the desolate
Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer-by.
