It does not matter very much to me
Through what strange ways my pathway now may lead;
Since I know that it runs away from thee,
I give it little heed.
It does not matter if in calm or strife,
There ebb or flow for me the future's tide.
I had but one great longing in my life,
And that has been denied.
It does not matter if I stand or fall,
Or walk with kings, or with the rank and file;
Life's loftiest aims and best ambitions all
Were centred in thy smile.
It does not matter what the world may say:
I feel no interest in its blame or praise.
I only know we dwell apart to-day,
And shall through endless days.
It does not matter. For my restless heart
Is numb to sorrow, or to pleasure's touch.
Since it must be that we two drift apart,
Why, nothing matters much.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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