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.