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,

О 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.