sabato 8 ottobre 2011

– Alone
O! I care not that my earthly lot
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 —

‘T is not that the flowers of twenty springs
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!
On my grave is growing or grown —
But that, while I am dead and alive
I cannot be, love, alone.

Egdar Allan Poe

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