by Edgar Allan Poe
June 16th, 2008 at 12:32 am (Public Domain)
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds,
Are lips–and all thy melody
Of lip-begotten words–
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall–
Thy heart–_thy_ heart!–I wake and sigh,
And sleep to dream till day
Of the truth that gold can never buy–
Of the baubles that it may.
