To ——

1829

Edgar Allan Poe


1
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
    The wantonest singing birds
Are lips—and all thy melody
    Of lip-begotten words—

2
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d
    Then desolately fall,
O! God! on my funereal mind
    Like starlight on a pall—

3
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
    And sleep to dream till day
Of truth that gold can never buy—
    Of the trifles that it may.


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