To ⸻

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 truth that gold can never buy⁠—
  Of the bawbles that it may.