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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2004-03-11 | [Aestu textŭ lipseashti s-hibâ dghivâsitŭ tu english] | Ânyrâpsitŭ tu bibliotecâ di Bethany Lerie
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.
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