Читать книгу Selections from Poe - Edgar Allan Poe - Страница 12

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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 5

Are happier, sweet, than I,

But that you sorrow for my fate

Who am a passer-by.