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.
bluedreamer said,
June 16, 2008 at 3:58 am
great poem its nice to be here in your blog more power and have a great day