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. It Is Not That My Founts Of Bliss Are Gushing, Strange! With Tears, Or That The Thrill Of A Single Kiss Hath Palsied Many Years, 'Tis 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. Not That The Grass, O! May It Thrive! On My Grave Is Growing Or Grown, But That, While I Am Dead Yet Alive I Cannot Be, Lady, Alone.