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To ----

by 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.