To ——

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.