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.