The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The wantonest singing birds, Are lipsand 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 heartthy 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.