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by Edgar Allan Poe

  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.

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