To —— (Poe, 1850)

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 truth that gold can never buy —
    Of the baubles that it may.