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.