Edgar Allan Poe

      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.