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.