To -- by Allan Edgar Poe

I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of truth that gold can never buy -
Of the trifles that it may.

1829.

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TO ---

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.

1829.