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

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Of the truth that gold can never buy

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Of the baubles that it may.