Chapter 48 of 67

From: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5

TO ——

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.

1829.

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