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.
I heed not that my founts of bliss
Be gushing, oh! with tears
That the tremor of one kiss
Hath palsied many years —
Which have wither'd as they rose
Lie dead on my heart-strings
With the weight of an age of snows.
Nor that the grass — O! may it thrive!
But that, while I am dead and alive
I cannot be, love, alone.