The speaker insists he doesn’t mind his own hard luck—a life with little earthly comfort, where love can be wiped out in a single moment of hatred. He even claims he doesn’t mourn the fact that those who have nothing are happier than he is. But one thought does wound him: the idea that you, the person he addresses, grieve over what becomes of him. He sees himself as only a fleeting stranger, a “passer-by” in your world, yet your sorrow for him cuts deeper than any of his own losses. The mood is quiet, resigned, and strangely tender. There’s no self-pity, only an aching concern for the pain his existence might cause someone he cares about. That final twist—where his deepest hurt isn’t his own suffering but yours on his behalf—gives the poem its fragile, haunting weight.
To---- — Summary
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.