Читать книгу The Complete Poetry - Эдгар Аллан По, Marta Fihel - Страница 52

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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.