Читать книгу Selections from Poe - Эдгар Аллан По, Edgar Allan Poe, Marta Fihel - Страница 8

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.