To ——, by Edgar Allan Poe

To ——

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.

poems.one - Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe