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To -- (IV)
by Edgar Allan PoeThe 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.