To

To - (The bowers whereat)

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 bawbles that it may.