The Poetry Corner

To -- (IV)

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.