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**** YES, THAT INCLUDES CONCERT PROGRAMS. ****
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 passerby.
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.
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
(Edgar Allan Poe)
, title 1: "To F--", 1845, published 1845 [an adaptation]
Text added to the website: 2011-03-11.
Notes about what "text verified" means can be found here.
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