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.

~ Edgar Allan Poe

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