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.
-Edgar Allan Poe