To----
Edgar Allan Poe, 1845

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.