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 enshrin’d
⁠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 truth that gold can never buy—
⁠Of the trifles that it may.