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Iheed not that my earthly lot Hath--little of Earth in it-- That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute:-- Imourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer-by.
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:--
But that you sorrow for my fate
Who am a passer-by.
1829.
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