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.