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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.