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To -- (i)

Edgar Allan Poe

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.

(C) Edgar Allan Poe
06/28/2019


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