To…

1829

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.

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