Edgar Allan Poe > Stories/Poems > To...

To... 1830
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.