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TO—— (II)

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.
Online text © 1998-2008 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Complete Poetical Works | John H. Ingram, 1875
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