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.