by Edgar Allan Poe
November 30th, 2011 at 9:00 pm (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.

